WMillPiil 

'JlikiiuLiu-. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


BOSTON    COMMON: 


TALE    OF   OUR   OWN    TIMES 

|    Y" 


fl 


BY    A    L  ADY  . 


1 1  wish  that  fate  had  left  me  free 
To  wander  these  quiet  haunts  with  thee, 
Till  the  eating  cares  of  earth  should  depart, 
And  the  peace  of  the  scene  pass  into  my  heart." 
BBYAST. 


BOSTON: 
JAMES    FRENCH    &    COMPANY, 

78    WASHINGTON    ST. 
1856. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1856,  by 

JAMES  FRENCH  &   CO., 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


Stereotyped  by 

HOBART    ft    ROBBINS, 

New  England  Type  and  Stereotype  Founder;, 

BOSTON. 


ffo 

HIM 

WHO   WAS   MY  ADVISER  AND  GUIDE   IN   PERPLEXITY, 

MY   FRIEND   AND  CONSOLER  IN   HOURS   OP   SORROW  AND  AFFLICTION, 

AND    MY    JOY    AMID    THE    SUNSHINE     OF    PROSPERITY, 

&$&  f iiile  Volume 

IS  GRATEFULLY  AND  AFFECTIONATELY  DEDICATED 
BY 

THE  AUTHORESS. 


BOSTON    COMMON. 


CHAPTER    I. 

"  Fancy  pours 

Afresh  her  beauties  on  his  busy  thought, 
Her  first  endearments  twining  round  the  soul, 
With  all  the  witchcraft  of  ensnaring  love." 

ANON. 

BOSTON  COMMON!  What  memories  does  this  beloved 
name  awaken  in  my  heart !  —  what  associations  recall  from 
the  recesses  of  the  long-buried  past ! 

Now,  while  these  memories  and  associations  are  fresh  in 
my  mind,  wilt  come  with  me,  dear  reader,  to  this  sweet  spot  ? 
wilt  recline  'neath  the  sheltering  branches  of  these  noble 
trees?  wilt  place  thy  hand  cordially  in  mine,  and  lend  me 
thy  sympathy  and  thy  heart  ?  and,  while  the  birds  are  war 
bling  their  love-songs  over  thy  head,  and  the  rainbow-tinted 
fountain  dashes  its  delicate  and  cooling  spray  about  thy  feet, 
—  while  the  fleecy  clouds  rest  lightly  in  the  southern  heavens, 
and  the  distant  hum  of  the  busy  city,  together  with  the  far 
off  murmuring  of  waters,  lull  thy  senses  to  forgetfulness  of 
care,  —  wilt  listen  to  my  simple  tale  ? 
1* 


6  BOSTON    COMMON. 

* 

I  was  born  in  a  little  country  village,  not  many  hundred 
miles  from  the  city  of  Boston.  It  is  due  to  my  parents  to 
say  something  of  them  in  this  place.  My  father  was  an 
Englishman,  of  a  proud  old  stock,  who  came  from  the  county 
of  Kent,  England,  to  this  country,  many  years  before  my 
birth.  His  father  sent  him  to  college,  when  quite  young,  to 
acquire  a  thorough  classical  education.  He  was  destined  for 
the  bar ;  but,  happening  to  meet  with  a  pretty  young  lady 
soon  after  his  entrance,  he  became  unfortunately  enamored  of 
her.  I  say  unfortunately ;  for  she  had,  in  the  e}res  of  the 
world,  the  great  fault  of  being  very  poor  in  purse,  although 
exceedingly  beautiful  in  person. 

The  young  gentleman  wrote  to  his  papa  in  due  time,  en 
treating  his  permission  to  wed  the  fair  Helen,  and  thereby 
make  two  loving  hearts  one. 

This  tender  epistle  brought  the  old  gentleman  down  very 
quickly  to  ascertain  whom  his  darling  Willie  intended  for  the 
high  honor  of  his  hand ;  but  when  he  found  that  the  lady  in 
question  was  a  little  nobody,  who  cut  and  made  dresses  for 
the  proud  dames  of  the  village  whenever  they  chose  to  pa 
tronize  her,  his  rage  knew  no  bounds.  He  anathematized  her 
at  once  ;  called  her  a  "  saucy  young  baggage,"  a  "  presuming 
upstart,"  &c. ;  and,  shaking  his  gold-headed  cane  in  the  very 
face  of  Master  William,  bade  him  attend  to  his  studies  im 
mediately,  and  to  beware  how  he  fell  in  love  or  troubled  his 
father  with  such  fooleries  again. 

My  grandfather  then  departed,  in  high  good  humor  with 
himself,  thinking  he  had  nipped  a  glorious  rebellion  in  the 
bud,  and  conquered  a  young  madcap  of  a  son,  who  he  for 
got  had  the  same  unconquerable  blood  in  his  veins  that  flowed 


BOSTON     COMMON.  7 

through  his  own,  and  only  waiting  an  occasion  like  the  pres 
ent  to  boil  over. 

Young  William  was  highly  incensed  at  the  insult,  as  he 
called  it,  that  his  father  had  put  upon  him  and  his  ladye-love, 
and,  with  the  fury  and  impetuosity  of  eighteen,  flew  to  Helen's 
humble  dwelling,  and  informed  her,  in  glowing  terms,  of  hi* 
father's  language  and  resolution. 

"  Helen,"  said  he,  "  you  are  dearer  to  me  than  ever.  I 
love  you  a  hundred  times  more  for  this  opposition,  and  noth 
ing  on  earth  shall  separate  us  more.  This  very  night,  my 
love,  shall  you  be  mine,  if  you  will.  I  will  bear  you  to  some 
far-distant  land,  where  I  shall  take  a  sacred  delight  in  labor 
ing  for  you,  my  sweet  Helen ;  and  we  will  be  the  carvers  of 
our  own  destinies,  and  together  undertake  life's  burdens, 
which  will  be  all  the  easier  if  shared  with  each  other.  Come, 
what  say  you  ?  Does  my  dear  girl  agree  to  this  ?  " 

"  But,  Willie,  you  are  too  hasty.  I  have  not  thought  suf 
ficiently  of  the  matter.  If  I  were  only  sure  of  not  being  a 
burden  to  you,  I  would  consent." 

"  Say  no  more,  dearest  Helen,"  cried  my  father,  clasping 
her  to  his  bosom.  "  You  are  now  mine,  and  forever.  I  now 
leave  you  to  obtain  a  clergyman,  whose  services  I  have 
already  secured,  in  the  person  of  a  young  friend  of  mine.  I 
will  be  with  you  in  an  hour." 

Thus  did  my  father  woo  and  win  his  first  wife.  They  were 
young,  ardent,  and  dearly  loved  each  other ;  and,  when  it  is 
taken  into  consideration  that  it  was  William's  first  love,  and 
that  he  had  made  up  his  mind  that  he  should  always  be 
wretched  if  he  did  not  obtain  this  object,  also  that  Helen 
was  poor,  had  no  parents  or  home,  and  no  one  to  offend  or 


8  BOSTON    COMMON. 

ask  consent  of,  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  so  much,  if  they 
did  lay  aside  prudence,  and  almost  take  a  leap  in  the  dark, 
as  it  were. 

Well,  they  were  married,  and  on  that  very  night,  too.  My 
poor  old  grandfather  had  just  arrived  at  home  and  taken  off 
iis  overcoat  and  boots,  and  was  recounting  his  success  in 
high  glee  to  his  family,  and  striving  to  impress  upon  their 
minds  an  idea  of  his  importance,  and  of  the  readiness  of  all 
things  to  yield  to  him,  when,  in  another  town,  not  twenty 
miles  off,  William  and  Helen  were  kneeling  at  the  altar, 
and  vowing  eternal  love  and  fidelity  to  each  other. 

My  father  purchased,  the  next  day,  from  his  spending- 
money,  a  fine  new  horse  and  sleigh,  and,  wrapping  his  lovely 
bride  in  the  well-lined  buffaloes,  started  for  an  unknown 
home. 

They  travelled  three  days,  and,  at  the  end  of  the  third, 
arrived  at  a  small  village,  pleasantly  situated  between  two 
hills,  on  the  banks  of  a  winding  stream. 

In  this  beautiful  vale  did  I  first  open  my  eyes  upon  a 
world  strange  to  me  as  fairy  land ;  and  here  was  I  reared  and 
educated  in  quietness  and  peace,  until  I  had  arrived  at  wom 
anhood.  Sweet  Linden  !  home  of  my  happy  infancy,  of 
my  joyous  childhood  and  careless  girlhood,  can  I  ever  forget 
thee  ?  Thou  art  intimately  interwoven  with  every  thought 
that  passes  through  my  mind,  with  every  joy  that  quickens 
my  pulse.  Thy  soft  blue  skies,  thy  leafy  bowers,  and  the 
noisy  brawling  of  thy  Black  Water,  will  be  remembered  to 
the  latest  moment  of  existence. 

To  return  to  my  father  and  his  bride.  They  were  much 
struck  with  the  beauty  of  sweet  Linden,  and  decided  to  stop 


BOSTON    COMMON.  9 

here  for  the  present,  and,  if  it  still  pleased  them  upon  farther 
acquaintance,  to  make  it  their  permanent  home. 

My  poor  father  had  another  and  a  sadder  reason  for  com 
ing  to  a  focus  just  now.  Can  you  guess  it,  reader  ?  He  had 
exhausted  his  last  dollar,  and  was  beginning  to  think  of  a 
little  reality,  as  well  as  romance.  Yes,  when  he  drove  up  to 
the  little  village  inn,  he  had  but  one  ninepence  in  his  pocket. 
And  what  think  you  he  did  with  that  ?  Why,  purchased  his 
hungry  wife  a  dozen  crackers  for  her  supper;  for  young 
brides,  although  lovely  as  houris,  do  get  hungry  sometimes, 
and  must  eat  like  other  people. 

I  have  often  been  told  this  story  of  the  ninepence,  and 
have  as  often  wondered  what  could  have  been  my  poor  sire's 
feelings  when  letting  go  from  his  well-used  wallet  this  last 
solitary  bit  of  silver.  Young,  warm-hearted,  and  inexperi 
enced  in  the  ways  of  the  world,  with  a  delicate  and  beautiful 
wife  depending  solely  upon  him  for  support,  what  was  he  to 
do  ?  He  was  in  a  strange  place  also,  with  not  a  friend  to 
help  him  out  of  his  dilemma,  or  a  person  whom  he  had  ever 
seen  before  to  vouch  for  him.  But  he  had  a  strong,  brave 
heart,  that  would  not  let  him  droop  for  a  moment,  but  kept 
him  buoyed  upon  the  wings  of  Hope,  and  a  kind  Father  in 
heaven  to  watch  over  and^guide  him.  In  Him  he  resolved  to 
put  his  trust ;  and,  with  Helen  by  his  side  to  cheer  and  en 
courage  him  with  her  smiles,  he  could  not  despair. 


CHAPTER    II. 

"  0  woman  !  in  our  hours  of  ease, 
Uncertain,  coy,  and  hard  to  please,  — 
When  pain  and  anguish  wring  the  brow, 
A  ministering  angel  thou." 

SIB  WALTER  SCOTT. 

WITH  all  these  thoughts  in  his  mind,  my  dear  parent  left 
the  hotel,  and  sauntered  down  the  pretty  little  street,  until 
he  came  to  a  shop  that  looked  rather  inviting,  by  the  goodly 
rows  of  cakes  and  buns  displayed  in  the  window. 

He  entered  the  shop  and  walked  up  to  the  counter,  ner 
vously  clutching  the  poor  little  ninepence  that  lay  so  securely 
in  his  pocket,  apparently  well  content  with  its  situation,  as 
being  sole  monarch  of  all  it  surveyed.  The  shopkeeper,  a 
pleasant-looking  man,  came  briskly  up,  smiling,  for  he  thought 
within  himself,  "  Here  is  a  fine-looking  young  fellow,  prob 
ably  come  to  buy  a  large  amount." 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  he,  addressing  my  father,  "  what  shall 
I  have  the  pleasure  of  showing  you,  this  morning?  " 

My  father  bit  his  lip,  and,  choking  back  a  strong  feeling 
of  pride  that  was  swelling  up  in  his  bosom,  for  he  understood 
the  thoughts  of  the  shopkeeper  in  a  moment,  with  head  erect, 
and  a  rather  louder  tone  than  usual,  said  : 


BOSTON     COMMON.  11 

"  I  wish  to  purchase  some  crackers,  —  a  ninepence  worth,  if 
you  please." 

The  man  bowed,  and  set  about  doing  them  up  for  him. 
William  went  to  the  door  to  get  his  money,  and  probably  to 
bid  farewell  to  it,  for  no  doubt  he  had  a  real  affection  for  the 
little  piece,  and  hated  to  part  with  it.  He  drew  it  slowly 
from  his  pocket,  and,  looking  upon  it  a  moment,  walked  up  to 
the  counter,  and,  placing  it  carefully  in  the  shopkeeper's  hand, 
as  if  afraid  of  hurting  it,  received  in  return  the  neat  little 
package,  and,  bowing  to  the  polite  shopkeeper,  hastily  pursued 
his  way  home. 

Helen  had  just  taken  off  her  wrappings,  and  was  warming 
and  resting  herself  after  her  long  journey,  when  her  husband 
entered.  She  saw  that  he  looked  sad,  and  a  foreboding  of 
something  ill  came  suddenly  over  her  heart,  like  a  wing  from 
the  shadow  of  death.  She  feared  all  was  not  right  with 
him,  and,  determining  to  know  the  worst  at  once,  she  slipped 
softly  to  his  side,  and  inquired,  in  gentle  tones,  the  cause  of 
his  depression. 

"  Nothing,  Helen,"  said  he,  "  that  you  can  remedy." 

"  Tell  me  what  it  is,  and  see  if  I  do  not  console  you  at 
once,"  said  she,  coaxingly,  twining  her  arras  around  his  neck, 
and  putting  on  one  of  her  own  May-day  smiles. 

William  considered  for  a  moment,  and  then,  more  from 
impulse  than  any  other  reason,  said,  abruptly : 

"  Mrs.  Helen  Clifton,  you  have  married  a  man  who  pos 
sesses  nothing  in  the  wide  world  but  you.  Yes,  Helen,  I 
am  poor,  very  poor.  I  am  in  a  strange  land,  without  a 
single  cent  in  my  pocket,  and  we  have  no  right  even  to  be 
boarding  here,  without  an  equivalent.  Now,  what,  in  Heaven's 


12  BOSTONCOMMON. 

name,  are  we  to  do  ?    If  you  can  find  a  balm  for  this  sickness, 
you  will  be  a  valuable  physician  indeed." 

Helen  burst  into  tears  at  this  announcement,  although  it 
was  more  on  account  of  her  husband's  feelings  than  her  own,  — 
but  suddenly  a  smile  broke  through  her  tears,  like  a  gleam  of 
sunshine  over  an  April  cloud,  and  she  said, 

"  You  forget  the  horse  and  sleigh,  Willie." 

My  father  started,  smiled,  and  clasped  her  to  his  bosom. 
"  Dearest  Helen,"  said  he,  "  you  have,  indeed,  relieved  me 
of  a  burden.  I  never  thought  of  that.  We  will  sell  them  in 
the  morning.  I  will  try  my  hand  at  some  business,  and  we 
will  yet  be  happy." 

"  Yes,  yes,  dear  Willie,  and,  meantime,  we  will  not  par 
take  of  this  man's  food  until  we  have  wherewith  to  pay  for  it. 
I  have  one  dollar,  one  solitary  dollar,  which  will  pay  for  a 
few  nights'  lodgings,  at  least." 

"  So  it  will,"  replied  Willie,  "  and  here  are  some  crackers 
I  purchased  of  a  man  down  street.  Let 's  eat  them,  and  hope 
for  better  days." 

Helen  untied  the  bundle,  and  was  much  surprised  at  find 
ing  on  the  top  of  the  crackers  a  little  note,  which  had  the 
appearance  of  having  been  written  and  folded  very  hastily. 
She  presented  it  to  her  husband,  who  seemed  quite  overjoyed 
at  its  contents.  His  wife,  who  had  a  deal  of  curiosity  con 
cerning  it,  seized  it  afterwards  playfully,  and  read  as  follows : 

"Sin:  I  perceive  that  you  are  in  trouble.  You  are  a 
stranger,  therefore  pardon  me  if  I  have  been  too  hasty  in 
addressing  you  ;  but,  if  there  is  anything  I  can  assist  you  in, 
command  me,  and  I  am  ready.  Yours,  &c., 

"  JOHN  BILUNGS." 


BOSTON     COMMON.  13 

"  Is  not  this  fortunate,  Helen  ?  "  said  my  father.  "I  will 
consult  him  in  the  morning  about  disposing  of  my  horse  and 
sleigh,  and  other  matters.  He  is  a  kind  man,  this  dealer  in 
bread  and  cakes,  and  I  know  his  crackers  must  taste  good ; 
so  let  us  taste  them." 

Perhaps  that  meal,  bought  with  the  last  ninepence,  was  the 
sweetest  the  young  couple  had  ever  tasted  ;  for  they  smiled 
and  looked  quite  happy  while  eating  it,  and,  with  hope  in 
their  hearts  and  confidence  in  a  kind  Providence,  they  retired 
to  rest. 

2 


CHAPTER    III. 

"At  his  control, 

Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul; 
Cojnfort  came  down  the  trembling  youth  to  raise, 
And  his  low,  faltering  accents  whispered  praise." 

GOLDSMITH. 

"  In  struggling  with  misfortunes,  lies  the  proof  of  virtue." 

SHAKSPEARE. 

MY  dear  father  was  up  and  dressed,  early  in  the  morning, 
I  assure  you,  and  once  more  on  his  way  to  the  little  bread- 
shop.  Mr.  Billings  was  alone,  and  the  two  gentlemen  were 
soon  in  deep  converse.  A  bystander  would  have  been  puzzled 
to  have  known  what  all  their  jargon  meant  j  for  only  a  few 
words  came  now  and  then  upon  the  ear,  such  as  horse,  shoes, 
cattle,  sleigh,  &c.  About  two  hours  afterward  Mr.  Clifton 
was  seen  walking.very  briskly  in  the  direction  of  home,  which 
he  soon  reached,  and  immediately  sought  his  wife's  chamber. 
There  he  took  off  his  cap,  and  swung  it  three  times  around  in 
the  air,  saying, 

"  Joy,  joy,  dear  Helen !  —  When  I  have  a  large  store  you 
can  afford  to  dress,  and  live  in  a  fine  house  ;  but  now,  when  I 
am  only  a  poor  leather-merchant,  you  will  consent  to  dress 
and  live  economically,  will  you  not  ?  " 


BOSTONCOMMON.  15 

"  Dress,  merchant,  store,  economy,"  said  the  bewildered 
Helen,  —  "  what  mean  you,  dear  Willie  ?  Please  explain 
yourself." 

"  Well,  Helen,  I  will  tell  you  what  I  mean  to  say.  I 
have  become  a  man  of  business,  and  this  very  day,  too. 
Farewell  to  books,  professors,  college  robes,  and  all !  I  am 
going  to  be  rich,  and  I  will  tell  you  how  it  was  brought 
about." 

Helen  drew  her  chair  close  to  her  husband's,  and,  leaning 
affectionately  upon  his  shoulder,  prepared  to  listen. 

"  Well,  dearest  Nellie,"  said  he,  "  when  I  first  arrived  at 
Linden,  I  was  sad  enough,  I  assure  you;  but  I  cast  all  my 
care  and  sorrow  up*on  the  Lord,  —  upon  that  good  and  gracious 
Being, 

'  Who  doth  the  ravens  feed, 
Yea,  providently  caters  for  the  sparrow/ 

not  doubting  but  that  all  would  be  right  in  the  end.  He, 
I  believe,  sent  me  almost  immediately  to  this  kind  Mr.  Bil 
lings,  this  Man  of  Ross,  and  he  has  raised  me  from  despair  to 
hope  once  more.  I  have  been  talking  with  him  this  morning, 
and  he  has  suggested  a  plan  whereby  I  can  obtain  an  honest 
living  at  present,  and  by  and  by  become  a  rich  man,  if  I  will 
but  follow  his  injunctions,  and  attend  closely  to  the  business." 
"  But  how —  what  do  you  intend  doing>  Willie  ?  " 
"  Why,  Helen,  I  am  going  to  sell  our  horse  and  sleigh, 
which  are  much  more  valuable  here  than  I  imagined,  and 
take  nearly  all  the  pay  in  cattle.  Mr.  Billings  says  that 
he  will  lease  me  a  piece  of  land  very  cheap,  and  I  can  pay 
him  for  the  use  of  it  at  the  end  of  the  year.  This  land  I  am 


16  BOSTON     COMMON. 

going  to  make  into  a  tan-yard,  with  the  assistance  of  two  or 
three  strong,  experienced  hands.  My  cattle  will  feed  in  the 
woods  at  present,  which  are  free  to  everybody  who  chooses  to 
use  them.  By  and  by,  when  my  yard  is  completed,  I  shall 
kill  these  cattle,  tan  their  hides,  and  build  a  small  shop 
where  I  can  manufacture  shoes  for  the  public.  Then,  in  time, 
I  shall  have  a  store  full  of  goods,  and  at  one  end  of  it  a  meat 
market.  There  is  neither  tannery,  shoe-shop,  or  market,  in 
this  little  primitive  town,  and  Mr.  Billings  says  that  I  am 
just  the  boy  for  the  business.  So,  look  out  sharply,"  Helen, 
for  you  will  yet  see  me  a  rich  man.  I  am  well  aware  that 
my  stock  will  be  small  at  first ;  but  I  shall  gradually  increase 
it,  and  '  slow,  but  steady,'  is  my  motto." 

Helen  looked  at  the  handsome  face  of  her  husband,  beam 
ing  with  smiles,  and  full  of  hardy  resolutions,  and  in  her 
heart  she  determined  to  cooperate  with  him,  and  to  assist 
him  all  in  her  power. 

My  father  hired  two  small  rooms  that  day,  which  Mr. 
Billings  assisted  him  in  furnishing  in  a  neat,  plain  manner. 
Into  these  he  removed  his  fair  wife,  and  together  they 
shared  the  labor  of  the  day.  Helen  cut  and  made  dresses 
and  bonnets  for  the  ladies  in  the  neighborhood,  and  thus 
added  her  mite  to  the  general  fund. 

William  soon  disposed  of  his  horse  and  sleigh,  and  his  new 
friend  Billings  assisted  him  in  putting  his  plans  into  execu 
tion.  He  leased  him  a  small  piece  of  land,  and  advised  him 
how  to  lay  down  a  good,  substantial  tan-yard.  He  helped 
him  buy  his  cattle,  hired  men  for  him,  and  in  a  short  time, 
and  with  very  little  capital,  my  father  was  doing  a  slow  but 
sure  business. 


BOSTON     COMMON.  17 

For  some  time,  the  young  couple  lived  in  the  plainest,  most 
economical  manner.  I  have  often  heard  my  mother  tell  of 
those  times ;  for,  although  she  was  not  my  father's  Helen,  she 
had  heard  him  recount  them  again  and  again,  for  he  took  an 
honest  pride  in  looking  back  upon  those  days  of  self-denials, 
and  strugglings  for  independence.  He  loved  to  tell  my 
mother  how  he  did  this  thing,  or  conquered  that,  and  little 
by  little  added  to  his  fortune  and  respectability. 

Dear  father !  He  was  truly  one  of  Nature's  noblemen. 
He  was  not  ashamed,  although  highly  born  and  bred,  of  hon 
est,  manly  labor,  especially  when  a  beloved  object  was 
depending  upon  him  for  support.  I  honor  his  memory, 
and  feel  prouder  of  the  heritage  he  has  left  me  of  his 
good  name  and  deeds,  than  of  the  thousands  he  so  carefully 
hoarded  for  his  only  child.  I  will  ever  reverence  his  mem 
ory,  and  my  children  shall  be  daily  taught  from  his  example, 
and  learn,  in  their  turns,  should  occasion  call,  to  stand 
boldly  up,  and  meet  their  difficulties,  gravely,  but  firmly,  in 
the  face. 

I  say  I  have  often  heard  of  those  dark  days  of  my  dear 
father  and  his  wife.  An  old  lady  told  me,  only  a  short  time 
since,  that  my  father's  first  wife  had  but  one  small  dipper  of 
any  kind  to  use  in  the  house,  for  a  long  time ;  and  that  this 
had  to  answer  the  purposes  of  bringing  water  from  the  spring, 
washing  potatoes,  dishes,  &c.,  and  for  many  other  things;  and 
that  she  had  heard  her  tell  her  husband,  one  day,  that  she 
wished,  with  all  his  other  business,  he  had  thought  of  slipping 
a  tin-shop  into  some  little  corner,  for  it  would  have  been  of 
the  greatest  possible  convenience  to  her.  However,  they 
2* 


18  BOSTON     COMMON. 

managed,  by  keeping  a  sharp  look-out  ahead,  to  increase 
their  worldly  stock ;  and  they  had  the  satisfaction  of  knowing 
that,  although  they  went  very  slowly  forward,  they  never 
went  back,  for  a  moment. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

"Go  down  beside  thy  native  rills, 
On  thy  Parnassus  set  thy  feet, 
And  hear  thy  laurels  whisper  sweet, 
About  the  ledges  of  the  hills." 

IN  MEMORIASI. 

MY  father's  business  talent  increased,  and  with  it  his  run 
of  customers.  In  due  time  he  built  him  a  small  collage,  with 
two  good  rooms  in  it,  and  a  little  shop.  To  this  house,  in  ten 
years,  he  built  a  large  addition,  and  embellished  it  with  trees 
and  flowers  of  every  description. 

In  this  house  I  was  born,  and  it  has  been  known,  for  many 
years,  as  the  old  "  Clifton  Homestead."  It  is  a  beautiful 
place.  Behind  it,  at  the  north,  rises  a  huge  granite  ledge, 
some  hundred  feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea.  This  old  mass 
is  associated  with  all  my  childish  recollections,  and  intimately 
interwoven  with  every  phase  of  my  imagination. 

When  young,  my  mother  did  not  dare  let  me  go  near  this 
ledge  alone,  for  fear  of  danger ;  but  I  have  sat  and  watched 
it  for  hours,  ana  imagined  I  could  see  all  sorts  of  beings 
moving  to  and  fro,  about  its  huge  precincts.  Now  I  would 
fancy  that  I  saw  a  bandit  leading  his  outlawed  tribe  into 
some  dark  hollow.  Then  I  would  fancy  an  army  were  wind- 


20  BOSTON     COMMON. 

ing  their  way  through  some  dim  ravine.  I  could  see  the 
flashing  of  their  armor,  and  half  catch  the  strains  of  their 
•wild  martial  music. 

But  my  favorite  vision  of  old  "  Granite  Bluff"  (for  so  was 
it  called)  was  of  a  beautiful  fairy,  who  resided  in  the  heart 
of  the  rock,  as  I  supposed,  and  had  become  the  kind  patron 
izing  genius  of  the  whole  town  around.  I  could  see  her  at 
times  weeping  over  the  little  hamlet ;  and  then  I  knew  some 
person  would  die,  and  I  would  half  fancy  I  heard  the  old 
church-bell  tolling  its  requiem  for  the  departed  soul. 

Again,  on  bright,  clear  mornings,  I  would  catch  a  glimpse 
of  her  silver  wings,  as  she  flitted  gayly  about  from  flower  to 
flower,  now  resting  on  a  mossy  seat,  now  verging  from  the 
very  tip  of  the  old  bluff;  and  then  I  knew  the  lovely  Spring 
was  coming,  and  that  I  should  soon  hear  the  murmur  of  the 
little  brooks,  as  they  broke  their  fetters,  and  bounded  away, 
in  joyous  gladness,  to'  meet  the  warm,  bright  sun;  and  see 
the  sweet  snow-drops  and  violets,  as  they  ventured  their 
lovely  heads  above  the  tender  grass.  But  then  I  was  a 
strange  child,  and  could  see  or  imagine  almost  everything  I 
chose. 

Behind  this  ledge  was  a  dark,  dim  forest  of  evergreens^ 
composed  of  spruce,  pine,  and  fir.  This  forest  had  long  been 
known  as  "  Old  Markhatn's  woods,"  and  was,  to  my  youth 
ful  fancy,  a  wild,  weird  place,  wherein  I  could  see  phantoms 
of  all  shapes  anffsizes,  in  every  possible  guise,  with  wan  faces, 
ghastly  eyes,  bloody  hands,  &c.  The  ver^name  of  Old 
Markham's  woods  was  enough  to  send  a  shiver  through  my 
frame  at  any  moment. 

In  these  woods,  somewhere,  —  I  never  could  find  the  place, 


BOSTON     COM  SI  ON.  21 

—  were  a  half-dozen  old  graves.  No  one,  not  even  the  oldest 
inhabitant,  knew  aught  of  the  tenants  slumbering  below,  or 
how  long,  or  for  what  purpose,  they  were  buried  in  so  remote 
a  place.  The  head-stones  were  half  broken  and  moss-grown, 
and  only  now  and  then  could  a  word  or  two  of  the  inscrip 
tions  be  discovered.  These  graves,  together  with  the  mystery 
attached  to  them,  gave  the  place  a  sort  of  terror  to  my  child 
ish  fancy,  that  I  could  never  conquer ;  and,  to  this  day,  I 
would  not  willingly  walk  those  woods  alone. 

At  the  west  of  our  cottage  did  I  see  the  sun  set  for  years. 
I  used  to  fancy  that  he  was  passing  through  golden  gates,  to 
some  brighter  region  beyond.  When  he  was  obscured  by 
clouds,  I  imagined  he  was  weary,  and  would  rest  for  that 
night,  with  his  snowy  bed-clothes  tucked  softly  about  his 
magnificent  head;  and  would  cheer  myself  with  the  thought 
that  his  eyes  would  be  all  the  brighter  for  a  good  night's 
rest. 

Our  parlor  windows,  which  were  southern,  commanded  a 
fine  view  of  the  "  Black  Water "  (for  so  was  our  river 
named),  as  it  wound  slowly  and  softly  by,  in  its  onward 
course  to  the  ocean.  But  I  must  leave  the  cottage,  and  go 
back  to  its  first  occupants. 

My  father  continued  to  thrive,  and  in  process  of  time  fur 
nished  his  house  with  every  necessary,  and  needful  luxury. 
He  then  added  to  his  stock  of  cattle,  enlarged  his  tannery, 
and  filled  his  store  with  all  sorts  qf  goods.  %n  due  time  he 
began  to  entertain  company,  and  soon  drew  around  him  all 
the  wealthiest  and  most  respectable  people  in  town ;  and  in 
this  refined  and  intellectual  society  passed  many  happy  as 
well  as  profitable  hours. 


22  BOSTONCOMMON. 

As  my  father  increased  in  wealth  and  prosperity,  remem 
bering  his  own  dark  days,  he  became  very  kind  and  charita 
ble  to  the  poor ;  and  the  neighbors  used  to  say  that  Mr. 
Clifton  kept  one  garden  on  purpose  for  the  poor  people  to 
come  and  get  their  dinners  from. 

"  Well,"  he  would  say,  "  I  have  plenty  of  land  and  help 
— why  should  I  not  devote  a  certain  portion  of  it  to  this 
purpose  ?  These  people  are  hungry,  and  I  dearly  love  to  see 
them  filling  their  baskets  at  my  expense." 


CHAPTER    V. 

"  Who  is  the  heir  of  all  these  fair  domains  ?  " 

ANON. 

WHEN  my  father  had  resided  about  five  years  in  Linden, 
there  came  a  company  of  Freemasons  to  the  town,  and  estab 
lished  a  society  of  this  ancient  brotherhood  in  the  place.  Mr. 
Clifton  and  his  firm  friend,  now  John  Billings,  Esq.,  were  some 
of  the  first  to  join  this  little  society ;  and  they  never  regretted 
it,  for  it  was  the  cause  of  sowing  much  love  and  harmony  in 
the  little  village. 

My  father  rose  from  grade  to  grade  in  his  new  profession, 
and  at  the  time  of  his  death  was  Royal  Master  of  the  Lodge. 
He  next  purchased  a  large  portion  of  land  in  the  village, 
which  could  be  bought  at  that  time  for  comparatively  a  trifle. 
He  had  an  idea  that  at  some  future  day,  when  he  was  mould 
ering  to  dust,  perhaps,  this  land  would  be  very  valuable,  and 
become  a  source  of  riches  to  his  children,  if  God  gave  him 
any ;  and  his  conjectures  were  right,  for  the  land  has  since 
increased  an  hundred-fold.  Thus  his  forethought  secured  to 
his  descendants,  if  rightly  improved,  a  lasting  source  of  inde 
pendence  and  wealth. 

I  must  hasten  to  the  time  when  my  father  had  amassed  a 


24  BOSTON     CO MM  ON. 

large  property,  and  had  become  the  possessor  of  every  com 
fort  and  luxury  desirable. 

About  this  period  he  began  to  look  around  him  and  see 
•what  else  was  wanting  to  render  him  completely  happy.  He 
soon  discovered  that  he  had  no  heir  to  his  possessions  but  a 
wife,  whose  health  was  too  delicate  to  admit  of  hope  from 
that  source.  He  asked  himself,  "  For  whom  am  I*  amassing 
all  this  wealth  ?  Who  will  possess  it  after  me,  and  will  they 
make  as  good  a  use  of  it  as  I  have  done  ?  " 

The  idea  of  his  having  no  child  to  inherit  his  wealth,  and 
cheer  his  declining  age,  preyed  sadly  upon  his  mind.  He 
would  sit  and  think  for  hours  upon  this  one  thing,  and  envy 
every  parent  whom  he  met.  He  became  absolutely  unhappy 
on  this  account,  and  allowed  his  mind  to  dwell  so  much  upon 
this  subject  that  his  health  seemed  to  be  failing.  He  sud 
denly  became  very  fond  of  children,  and  would  sit  and  play 
for  hours  with  a  little  boy,  belonging  to  one  of  his  servants, 
and  that  had  been  born  in  his  house.  The  story  of  this  young 
couple  is  romantic,  and  deserves  to  be  related. 

They  were  Irish,  and  dearly  loved  each  other,  but,  on 
account  of  some  family  feud,  were  forbidden  to  marry.  As 
they  had  made  up  their  minds  they  should  be  perfectly  mis 
erable  without  each  other,  they  decided  to  pack  up  their  few 
clothes,  and  run  away  in  the  night.  This  they  accomplished, 
and  when  only  a  few  hours  at  sea  were  united  in  wedlock,  by 
a  chaplain  who  happened  to  be  on  board. 

In  due  time  they  arrived  in  America,  wearied  with  their  long 
voyage,  and  with  scarcely  a  pound  in  their  pockets,  but  still 
as  firmly  devoted  to  each  other  as  ever.  Resolving  to  seek 
for  employment,  they  travelled  on  foot  about  one  hundred 


BOSTONCOMMON.  25 

miles,  but  without  success.  At  length  they  arrived  at  the 
town  of  Linden,  and  as  poor  Elsie  was  unable  to  proceed 
any  further,  they  decided  to  stop  here  for  a  few  days,  and 
rest  themselves. 

In  the  course  of  the  next  day  Patrick  met  one  of  my 
father's  men,  who  was  an  Irishman  also,  and  asked  him  if 
he  knew  of  any  work  he  could  get  to  do  in  the  village. 

The  man  directed  him  to  his  master  at  once,  as  being  in 
want  of  a  person  to  saw  and  split  wood,  and  do  the  work 
about  the  house  and  garden. 

Mr.  Clifton  was  eating  his  dinner  when  he  called,  but  he 
kindly  desired  him  to  make  known  his  wishes,  and  he  would 
grant  them  if  possible. 

Patrick  then  related  his  short  story,  and  ended  by  saying 
that  he  was  in  search  of  employment.  Mr.  Clifton  listened 
attentively,  and  was  so  much  pleased  with  the  honest,  good- 
natured  face  of  this  son  of  Erin,  that  he  engaged  him  at 
once. 

"And  tell  your  wife,  my  good  fellow,"  said  he,  as  Patrick 
was  leaving,  "  that  Mrs.  Clifton  needs  a  good,  industrious, 
faithful  servant ;  and,  if  she  can  be  all  that,  we  shall  be  glad 
to  have  her  come  too,  for  it  would  be  a  sad  pity  to  have  such 
tender  hearts  separated."  The  dear  gentleman  was  probably 
thinking  of  his  own  love  passages. 

Patrick  bowed,  and,  after  a  "  God  bless  your  honor,  we 
will  do  our  best,"  departed  to  bring  Elsie.  They  were  soon 
installed  at  the  homestead,  where  they  lived  for  many  years, 
and  ever  proved  themselves  to  be  honest,  fajthful  servants, 
of  their  offspring  were  born  in  the  house;  and  Mr. 
3 


26  BOSTON     COMMON. 

Clifton,  from  his  great  love  for  children,  soon  became  fondly 
attached  to  these. 

At  length,  as  their  family  increased,  he  built  Patrick  and 
Elsie  a  small,  comfortable  cottage,  on  the  banks  of  the  Black 
Water,  in  a  corner  lot  of  his  own  farm.  Thither  they 
removed,  and  for  many  years  lived  there  very  happily. 
They  always  honored  and  loved  my  father  very  much,  and, 
•when  he  died,  there  were  no  sincerer  mourners  that  followed 
him  to  his  last  resting-place  than  this  poor,  humble  Irish 
couple,  who  had  for  so  many  years  enjoyed  his  kindness  and 
bounty.^ 

As  time  went  on,  and  my  father  despaired  of  ever  having 
a  child  to  inherit  his  wealth,  he  began  to  think  of  a  dear, 
beautiful  old  home  in  Massachusetts.  I  should  have  men 
tioned,  ere  this,  that,  some  years  before,  my  grandfather,  get 
ting  over  his  pet  at  William's  marriage,  had  sent  for  him 
and  his  wife  to'  come  and  visit  them;  but  that  they  had 
declined  the  invitation  for  the  present,  at  least,  and  the  old 
people  had  to  content  themselves  with  sending  them  a  few 
presents,  and  writing  to  them  occasionally.  But  now,  when 
in  the  noontide  of  his  prosperity,  when  everything  smiled 
upon  him,  and  all  his  wishes,  save  one,  were  gratified,  yearn 
ings  for  his  old  childhood's  home  and  kindred  came  over 
him  so  powerfully,  that  he  resolved  on  paying  his  parents  a 
visit. 

Soon  after  this  determination  Mrs.  Clifton  was  taken  ill, 
and  as  her  health  remained  in  a  precarious  state  during  the 
winter,  he  was  «bliged  to  postpone  his  visit  for  an  indefinite 
time.  In  the  spring,  however,  he  one  day  received  tidings 


BOSTONCOMMON.  27 

that  his  father  was  dangerously  ill,  and  required  his  presence 
immediately. 

As  Mrs.  Clifton  was  now  quite  well,  she  proposed  going 
with  him.  He  assented,  and  they  set  out  upon  a  journey 
which  they  once  never  expected  to  take ;  but  sickness  and 
death  are  great  levellers,  and  everything,  even  pride,  has  to 
stoop  its  lofty  head  at  their  stern  mandates. 


CHAPTER    VI. 

"  Death  ends  our  woes. 
And  the  kind  grave  shuts  up  the  mournful  scene." 

DKVDEN. 

As  they  approached  the  old  paternal  mansion,  from  which 
.they  had  been  so  long  excluded,  a  great  many  sad  thoughts 
oppressed  my  father's  heart,  and  filled  his  eyes  with  tears  of 
regret  and  sorrow  for  the  past ;  and  although  he  had  been  so 
very  happy  with  his  Helen,  yet  he  sorrowed  that  so  many 
years  had  flown  by  unblessed  with  the  presence  and  affection 
of  his  kindred. 

At  length  they  reached  the  walk  that  led  up  to  the  main 
entrance  of  the  paternal  mansion.  The  long  rows  of  beauti 
ful  trees  waved  sadly  as  they  passed,  and  seemed  to  greet 
them  with  a  sigh  from  every  leaf.  The  door  was  opened  by 
an  old  servant,  whom  Mr.  Clifton  recognized  in  a  moment, 
and  who,  in  his  turn,  welcomed  "  Master  William  "  with  as 
much  joy  as  he  could  feel  upon  so  sad  an  occasion. 

"  How  is  my  father,  Cato  ?  "  said  he. 

"Hush,  massa,"  replied  Cato,  "  and  follow  me ;  he  has  just 
asked  for  you  and  missis,  here." 

William  followed  Cato,  with  his  wife  trembling  upon  his 
arm,  to  a  large,  lofty  chamber.  Here  were  the  family  assem- 


BOSTON     COMMON.  29 

bled  to  witness  the  last  moments  of  its  head.  Wife,  brothers, 
sisters,  children,  all  were  around  the  old  patriarch,  striving 
to  soothe  his  passage  to  the  grave,  and  render  the  dark  valley 
easy  of  descent.  At  William's  entrance  a  general  sob  per 
vaded  the  room.  The  old  man,  in  the  bed,  half  raised  his 
head  at  this,  and  faintly  asked  if  William  and  Helen  had 
come  yet. 

"  Here  I  am,  my  father,"  cried  his  repentant  son,  rushing 
up  to  the  bedside,  and  kneeling  before  his  parent,  —  "  for 
give,  0,  forgive  me  before  you  depart !  and  bless  me,  0  my 
father,  and  poor  Helen  also  !  " 

"Where  are  you,  my  children?"  said  the  dying  man, 
reaching  out  his  arms. 

They  went  close  to  the  bedside,  and  embraced  the  old  man, 
who  said,  "  Bless  you,  bless  you,  my  children ! "  Then 
clasping  his  hands  together,  he  continued :  "  Lord  — 
now  lettest  —  thou  thy  servant  —  depart  —  in  peace."  A 
moment  more,  and  there  came  over  the  face  a  mortal  pale 
ness.  The  eyes  closed,  the  lower  jaw  fell,  the  head  sunk 
back,  and  all  was  over. 

William  threw  himself  by  the  side  of  his  father,  and  wept 
long  and  bitterly.  Never  had  he  known,  until  that  moment, 
what  sorrow  was.  He  would  not  leave  his  father  all  night, 
but  sat  by  the  bedside,  until  daylight  began  to  streak  the 
eastern  horizon  with  a  few  silvery  lines.  He  then  kissed  the 
beloved  features  mournfully,  folded  the  pale  hands  reverently 
upon  the  breast,  and  after,  one  long,  affectionate  look,  sought 
his  chamber. 

On  the  fourth  day  from  his  decease,  my  aged  grandfather 
was  committed  to  the  tomb.  He  was  followed  thither  by  all 
3* 


30  BOSTON    COMMON. 

his  relatives,  and  a  large  number  of  friends,  who  had  known 
and  respected  him  while  living,  None  suffered  so  deeply  as 
poor  William.  He  alone  had  failed  to  watch  the  declining 
age  of  his  father.  All  had  been  there,  ministering  to  his 
wants,  soothing  his  sufferings,  save  him,  the  recreant  son. 
Thus  are  we  ever  called  upon  to  grieve  for  the  faults  of  our 
youth,  and  every  pain  that  we  cause  a  parent  or  friend  is 
sure  to  wring  the  heart  with  anguish  after  they  are  gone. 

William  and  his  wife  remained  a  fortnight  in  Lansdowne, 
and  then,  bidding  adieu  to  the  paternal  mansion,  started 
once  more  for  their  own  dear  home,  now  grown  ten  times 
dearer  by  absence. 

Once  more,  and  in  a  few  months,  was  my  father  called 
upon  to  mourn ;  and  this  time  we  see  him  bending  over  the 
couch  of  his  dying  Helen,  —  of  that  wife  who  had  followed  him 
through  weal  and  woe,  who  had  been  his  all,  his  only  com 
fort,  for  fifteen  years.  And  now,  when  they  together  had  ob 
tained  enough  of  this  world's  goods  to  live  peacefully  and 
without  a  care  for  the  remainder  of  their  days,  to  think  that 
she,  the  fairest  and  best  of  women,  his  guide  and  counsellor, 
must  leave  him  to  go  down  to  the  dark  grave,  must  be  for 
ever  torn  from  his  protecting  arms !  —  it  was  too  much  ;  he 
could  not  bear  it. 

After  laying  his  treasured  wife  in  the  grave,  after  hearing 
the  cold  clods  rattle  upon  her  dear  breast,  he  returned  home, 
with  a  heart  unstrung  and  unfit  for  use.  What  could  he  do  ? 
what  should  he  do ?  —  where  look  for  comfort?  He  raved, 
and,  in  the  delirium  of  his  anguish,  reproached  his  Maker 
for  taking  her  from  him,  and  prayed  to  be  laid  by  her  side. 
It  would  be  all  he  asked  for,  all  he  desired.  His  prayers 


BOSTON     COMMON.  31 

were  not  granted,  at  that  time,  at  least.  My  dear  father  was 
spared  for  other  and  happier  days  than  the  present. 

For  three  long  years  he  mourned  his  Helen.  He  loved  to 
visit  her  grave  at  the  sweet  hour  of  evening,  when  all  nature 
was  sinking  to  repose,  and  the  air  was  too  gentle  to  disturb 
even  the  leaves  of  the  aspen-tree.  He  would  throw  himself 
upon  the  soft  turf,  and  lie  there  for  hours,  bathing  it  with 
tears,  and  conversing,  as  he  called  it,  with  his  lost  saint. 
Time,  however,  laid  its  healing  hand  upon  his  brow,  and  bade 
him  rouse  himself  to  life  and  action  once  more. 

There  were  a  lady  and  gentleman  by  the  name  of  Hunting 
don,  who  resided  a  short  distance  fronj  my  father  at  this 
period.  This  couple  had  but  one  child,  a  daughter,  about  five 
years  of  age,  a  sweet,  interesting  little  girl,  who  called 
my  father  "  Uncle  Tlifton,"  and  who  cheered,  by  her  innocent 
prattle,  many  of  his  sad  hours,  and  beguiled  them  of  half 
their  loneliness. 

The  little  girl  invited  him  in,  one  day,  to  see  her  mamma ; 
and  he,  more  to  please  her  than  for  any  other  reason,  con 
sented  to  go.  He  found  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Huntingdon  at  home, 
and  just  eating  their  supper.  They  greeted  him  courteously, 
and  invited  him  to  take  tea  with  them.  He  was  charmed 
with  the  intelligence  of  the  gentleman,  and  no  less  pleased 
with  the  beauty  and  grace  of  the  wife ;  and,  when  he  arose  to 
return  home,  declared  that  he  had  not  been  so  happy  for 
years. 

"  Then,"  said  Mrs.  Huntingdon,  "  since  you  have  enjoyed 
your  visit  so  well  this  time,  we  should  be  happy  to  have  you 
repeat  it,  and  often  too."  Little  Leonora  joined  her  entreat- 


32  BOSTONCOMMON. 

ies  to  those  of  her  parents ;  and,  after  thanking  them  for 
their  kindness,  he  consented  to  drop  in  occasionally. 

The  friendship  thus  accidentally  commenced  increased,  and 
goon  became  a  source  of  real  happiness  to  Mr.  Clifton,  who 
now  found  that  a  little  society  was  all  he  wanted  to  chase 
his  dark  moments  away.  He  was  very  fond  of  little  Leonora, 
and  loved  to  partake  of  the  hospitality  of  her  parents.  One 
day  he  said,  in  a  laughing  way,  to  Mrs.  Huntingdon, 

"  I  am  so  much  in  love  with  you,  and  your  delicious  tea- 
cakes,  that,  if  I  were  sure*  of  your  mother's  having  another 
girl  like  you,  I  would  start  this  very  day  and  secure  her  for 
a  wife." 

"  Then  you  may  go  right  %way,"  rejoined  the  lady,  "for  I 
have  a  little  sister  at  home,  just  like  me  precisely,  only  many 
years  younger." 

My  father  laughed,  and  said  something  about  being  half  a 
mind  to  keep  his  promise.  These  words,  said  in  a  jesting 
manner,  made  more  impression  upon  both  than  either  liked 
to  acknowledge.  Mrs.  Huntingdon  said  to  herself,  "  What  a 
nice  match  he  would  make,  with  his  fine  estate  and  money, 
for  either  of  my  unmarried  sisters !  for  mother  is  poor,  and 
not  able  to  do  for  them  as  she  would  like ;  "  and  then  a  half 
resolution  was  formed  of  writing  to  her  mother  about  it. 
My  father,  on  his  part,  —  although  the  memory  of  his  lost 
Helen  was  yet  fresh  in  his  mind,  —  thought  of  his  lonely 
condition,  of  his  home  without  a  mistress,  his  fireside  with 
out  a  companion ;  and  new  scenes  and  hopes  began  to  rise 
upon  his  fancy. 

In  imagination,  he  beheld  a  beautiful  young  wife  presiding 
at  his  table,  and  cheering,  with  her  smiles  and  endearments, 


B'OSTON     COMMON.  33 

his  lonely  hours.  And  then  a  vision  of  fair-haired  children 
came  slowly  into  view.  This  last  was  enough  ;  and, he  deter 
mined  that  very  night  that  his  dreams  should  become  reali 
ties,  if  possible.  . 

In  a  week  or  two,  he  suddenly  discovered  that  he  wanted  a 
new  horse  and  carriage ;  and  as  they  could  not  be  obtained 
anywhere  short  of  Boston,  he  decided  that  he  must  take  a 
trip  there.  Before  starting,  however,  he  mentioned  to  Mrs. 
Huntingdon  that  he  was  going  to  her  native  city,  and  that 
if  she  had  any  commands  to  her  family,  he  should  be  very 
happy  to  execute  them. 

This  was  a  fine  opportunity  for  the  lady,  who  wrote  imme 
diately  to  her  mother.  Bat,  iomehow,  her  letter  was  filled 
with  the  praises  of  Mr.  Clifton,  whom  she  begged  her  mother 
and  sisters  to  treat  with  the  greatest  respect,  as  being  a  gen 
tleman  of  wealth  and  consideration.  And  then  she  bewailed 
her  lonely  lot,  —  of  being  so  far  from  home,  without  a  mother 
or  sister  to  cheer  her  solitude.  She  ended  by  entreating  her 
parent  to  send  down  one  of  the  girls  with  Mr.  Clifton,  or  she 
should  die  of  clear  loneliness. 

Well,  my  father  started  to  buy  his  horse  and  carriage ;  but, 
owing  to  his  preoccupied  thoughts,  he  forgot  to  transact  this 
part  of  his  business  until  after  he  had  visited  the  pretty  white 
cottage  of  the  Widow  Graham,  Mrs.  Huntingdon's  mother. 
The  old  lady  was  at  home,  but  the  girls  w<?re  out.  She  re 
ceived  him  kindly,  and  was  made  quite  happy  by  the  letter. 
The  ingenious  contents  set  her  to  dreaming  also ;  and  she 
began  to  think,  "  What  a  nice  gentleman  !  and  what  a  fine 
home  would  his  be  for  either  of  my  poor  girls  after  I  am 
gone !  Yes,  yes,  dear  Louisa  is  right.  She  must  be  lonely 


84  BOSTON    COMMON. 

enough,  poor  thing !  in  that  wild,  out-of-the-way  place.  It 
is  my  duty  to  let  Frances  or  Ilettie  visit  her ;  and  they  can 
go  in  company  with  this  gentleman,  if  he  will  take  the  trou 
ble  to  escort  them." 

The  good  lady  then  aeked  Mr.  Clifton  to  call  again,  saying 
that  she  should  be  happy  to  have  him  make  her  house  his 
home  while  he  remained  in  the  city,  adding  that  she  had  two 
young  ladies,  who  would  gladly  assist  her  in  making  every 
thing  agreeable  to  him. 

Mr.  Clifton  was  charmed  with  so  much  politeness,  but  de 
clined  availing  himself  of  her  kind  invitation,  on  plea  of 
business.  He  softened  his  refusal,  however,  by  saying  that 
he  would  call  often,  and  expressed  the  pleasure  he  should 
have  in  becoming  acquainted  with  the  daughters  of  so  hos 
pitable  a  lady ;  and  thus  they  parted,  both  highly  delighted 
with  each  other. 


CHAPTER    VII. 


•  The  faultless  form, 


Shaped  by  the  hand  of  Harmony;   the  cheek, 
Where  the  live  crimson,  through  the  native  white 
Soft  shooting,  o'er  the  face  diffuses  bloom, 
And  every  nameless  grace  ;  the  parted  lip, 
Like  the  red  rosebud  moist  with  morning  dew, 
Breathing  delight  ;  and  under  sunny'  ringlets, 
The  neck  slight  shaded,  and  the  swelling  breast  ; 
The  look  resistless,  piercing  to  the  soul, 
And  by  the  soul  informed." 

THOMSON'S  SEASONS. 

Now,  the  Widow  Graham,  although  what  is  called  a  good 
Christian,  was  very  ready  and  willing  to  see  her  children 
well  established  in  life  (as  what  parent  is  not  ?) ;  and  so 
she  determined  to  sound  her  daughters  at  once  upon  the  mat 
ter,  when  they  returned.  They  soon  came  in  ;  and,  as  they  arc 
here,  I  will  take  the  liberty  of  describing  them. 

Frances,  the  eldest,  was  rather  a  plain  girl,  but  considered 
herself  extremely  good-looking.  She  was  tall,  and  well 
formed,  with  blue  eyes  and  brown  hair ;  but  there  was  a  rest 
less  look  in  the  eyes,  that  were  ever  roving  about  in  quest  Of 
something,  she  scarcely  knew  what.  She  had  had  two  or 
three  admirers,  but  had  turned  away  from  them  aU,  saying 


36  BOSTON"     COMMON*. 

"  they  were  not  good  or  rich  enough  for  her."  TVhen  her 
mother  told  her  of  Mr.  Clifton,  however,  she  decided  upon 
him  at  once  as  the  man  for  her,  and  told  her  mother  as  much. 

"  "Well,  well,  my  darlings,"  said  the  good  widow,  "  you 
may  decide  it  between  you ;  only  be  sure  to  be  in,  and  look 
ing  your  prettiest,  to-morrow,  when  he  calls." 

But  I  have  almost  forgotten  the  youngest  sister.  Step 
forward,  dear  Hettie  Graham,  in  all  your  loveliness,  and  let 
me  introduce  you  to  the  reader,  as  my  own  dear  mother  ! 
Yes,  here  she  is,  and  the  secret  is  out. 

Hettie  Graham  was  just  seventeen,  —  of  that  happy  age 
when  the  eyes  behold  everything  through  "  rose-colored  spec 
tacles."  A  lovely  creature  was  my  mother  at  that  period,  as 
all  her  friends  have  declared  to  me  time  and  time  again ; 
with  her  soft,  bright  hair,  flowing  in  unconstrained  ringlets, 
and  her  eyes,  of  heaven's  own  blue,  now  dancing  in  joyous 
gladness,  now  cast^  down  in  pensive  reflection.  Her  form 
seemed  to  have  been  cast  when  Nature  was  in  one  of  her 
happiest  moods;  for  she  looked,  moved,  and  breathed,  only 
grace.  On  this  fair  creature  Mr.  Clifton  and  his  money 
made  not  the  slightest  impression.  She  could  scarcely  listen 
to  the  description  of  him,  so  entirely  preoccupied  was  she 
with  her  own  happy  thoughts  and  fancies.  However,  she 
promised  her  mother  that  she  would  dress  and  look  her  very 
best,  for  the  reception  of  the  expected  guest. 

Both  the  girls  now  retired,  but  Hettie  soon  returned  to  the 
parlor,  with  her  ringlets  combed  out  as  straight  as  she  could 
get  them,  and  with  an  old  dress  on,  torn  and  disfigured,  that 
she  had  romped  in,  the  day  before,  with  a  young  gentleman 
cousin  of  hers. 


BOSTONCOMMON.  37 

"  There,  mother,"  said  she,  laughing,  "  this  is  the  style  in 
which  I  am  going  to  dress  to-morrow,  when  Mr.  Clifton  calls ; 
for  I  am  determined  that  he  shall  not  fall  in  love  with  me. 
Fan  wants  him  sadly,  and  I  am  sure  I  care  not  if  I  never 
behold  him." 

Her  mother  laughed,  but  shook  her  head  reprovingly  at  the 
"  young  minx,"  as  she  called  her,  and  bade  her  remember  her 
promise.  As  she  spoke,  the  door  opened  softly,  and  the  servant 
announced  Mr.  CKfton,  who  had,  strangely  enough,  forgotten 
his  business,  and  called  again.  He  had  just  dropped  in,  he 
said,  to  see  if  the  daughters  of  so  hospitable  a  lady  had  yet 
returned ;  adding,  that  he  was  extremely  desirous  of  telling 
them  of  their  good  sister  at  the  east,  who  had  been  so  very 
kind  to  him  in  his  affliction. 

At  his  sudden  entrance,  all  Hettie's  resolutions  about 
appearing  before  him  in  her  present  garb  were  put  to  flight, 
and  she  vanished  into  a  closet,  directly  behind  his  back,  so 
quickly  that  he  did  not  perceive  her.  My  poor  grandmother 
was  electrified ;  but,  after  seating  her  guest  with  a  deal  of 
politeness,  said  that  she  would  call  Miss  Frances,  who  was  at 
home,  adding  that  she  believed  Miss  Hettie  had  not  yet 
returned. 

As  the  good  lady  went  by  the  closet-door,  she  imagined 
that  she  heard  a  suppressed  titter,  and  she  was  really  vexed ; 
but,  trusting  that  Hettie  would  have  the  good  sense  to  remain 
secreted  until  after  the  stranger's  departure,  she  sought 
Fanny's  room,  and,  telling  her  of  Hettie's  dilemma,  requested 
her,  as  she  was  dressed,  to  go  down  immediately  and  enter 
tain  the  stranger. 

A  gleam  of  triumph  shot  into  Miss  Fanny's  face,  at  what 
4 


38  BOSTON    COMMON. 

her  mother  had  said  respecting  Hettie,  and  she  prepared  to 
descend  to  the  parlor. 

"  Mind,  Fanny,  and  look  your  very  prettiest,"  said  my 
grandmother.  She  had  no  time  to  say  anything  more,  for 
just  then  they  reached  the  parlor-door,  which  was  open. 

"Mr.  Clifton  —  Miss  Graham,"  said  my  grandmamma, 
addressing  the  parties.  The  gentleman  bowed  low,  and  raised 
the  lady's  hand  to  his  lips  ;  but  he  could  not  suppress  a  slight 
feeling  of  disappointment  as  he  did  so,  for  this  girl  did  not 
resemble  Mrs.  Huntingdon  in  the  least.  However,  he  seated 
himself  by  her  side,  and  entered  into  conversation  immedi 
ately.  Mrs.  Graham,  good  soul,  of  course  had  the  dinner  to 
attend  to  ;  so.  bidding  them  enjoy  themselves,  left  the  room. 
In  the  course  of  the  conversation,  Fanny  asked  Mr.  Clifton 
if  he  had  yet  seen  her  sister. 

"  I  have  not  had  that  pleasure,"  was  his  reply,  "  as  yet ; 
but  hope  soon  to." 

"  Then  you  shall  see  her,"  said  Fanny,  "  and  immediately." 

She  arose,  as  she  spoke,  and,  opening  the  closet-door,  dis 
covered  poor  Hettie,  in  her  ragged  dress  and  dishevelled  ring 
lets,  blushing  as  red  as  a  peony. 

"  Here,"  said  Miss  Fanny,  drawing  her  forth,  with  a  smile, 
"  is  our  baby.  She  always  does  as  she  pleases  with  us  at 
home ;  and  so,  when  mother  told  her  that  \ve  were  going  to 
have  the  honor  of  a  visit  from  you,  she  decked  herself  out  in 
this  style  to  receive  you  ;  but  when  she  caught  a  glimpse  of 
you  at  the  door,  her  resolution  gave  way,  and  she  fled." 

Mr.  Clifton  arose,  and  politely  bowed  to  the  poor  young 
creature,  whom  he  sincerely  pitied.  He  was  very  much 
surprised,  on  raising  his  eyes  to  hers,  to  find  so  much 


BOSTONCOMMON.  39 

beauty  shining  even  through  her  uncouth  garb,  and  his  heart 
told  him  at  once  that  he  had  at  last  discovered  the  one  he 
had  been  in  pursuit  of.  Here  was  Mrs.  Huntingdon's  very 
fac-simile,  save  that  Hettie  was  a  deal  the  fairer.  He  was 
charmed  at  once,  and  scarcely  noticed  Fanny  afterwards, 
who,  when  she  found  her  plan  for  lowering  Hettie  had  been 
futile,  left  the  room  in  chagrin  and  mortification.  Thus  it  is 
ever.  Our  schemes  for  disgracing  others  generally  lead  to 
our  own  downfall. 

Mr.  Clifton,  with  the  true  politeness  of  a  well-bred  gentle 
man,  took  not  the  slightest  notice  of  Hettie's  dress,  but  con 
versed  a  few  moments  upon  light  and  general  topics,  and  then 
left,  saying  he  would  call  again  in  the  evening.  All  the  way 
home  the  sweet  face  of  Hettie  haunted  him  like  a  dream. 
He  could  think  of  nothing  but  her;  and  when  he  arrived  at 
the  inn,  he  called  the  waiter  Hettie,  and  kept  repeating  the 
sweet  little  name  until  he  reached  his  own  room.  It  was 
quite  evident  that  the  strong  man  was  conquered  again,  and 
this  time  by  a  little  witch  of  a  girl,  who  cared  not  a  fig 
whether  he  died  that  day,  or  lived  a  century. 

In  the  evening  he  called  again  at  the  cottage.  Fanny  and 
her  mother  had  gone  out,  but  Hettfe  was  there ;  and  this  time, 
in  all  the  glory  of  white  muslin  and  ringlets,  looked  perfectly 
lovely.  Mr.  Clifton  thought  that  he  had  never  seen  but  one 
face  or  form  that  at  all  compared  with  the  one  now  before 
him,  and  he  gave  a  sigh  to  past  and  happier  days. 

"  You  are  sad  to-night,"  said  the  silver  voice  of  Hettie. 
"  I  wish  mamma  and  Fanny  were  at  home,  for  I  don't  know 
what  to  say  when  people  are  sad." 


40  BOSTON    COMMON. 

"Are  you  never  sad,  my  fair  young  hostess?"  said  Mr. 
Clifton. 

"  Why,  not  exactly,"  replied  Hettie.  "  Mamma  is  very 
kind  to  me,  and  so  is  Fanny,  —  only  she  vexed  me  sadly  this 
morning,  —  and  so  I  have  nothing  in  particular  to  grieve 
about.  But  tell  me  what  makes  you  thus  unhappy,  sir,  and 
I  can  assure  you  that  I  will  sympathize  with  you." 

Mr.  Clifton,  drawn  insensibly  by  the  tones  of  the  young 
girl,  found  himself  relating,  scarcely  before  he  was  aware  of 
it,  how  in  early  life  he  had  wooed  and  wed  a  fair  young  girl, 
like  herself;  how  dearly  they  had  loved  each  other,  and 
how,  after  living  with  him  for  fifteen  years,  and  sharing  and 
lightening  all  his  cares,  she  was  suddenly  snatched  from  his 
arms,  and  borne  down  to  the  cold  grave,  in  the  very  bloom 
and  ripeness  of  womanhood.  He  also  told  her  how  lonely  his 
house  was  after  her  decease,  and  that  it  resembled  a  living 
tomb  more  than  anything  else;  for  everything  he  touched 
looked  like  her  who  was  dead,  and  felt  cold  and  lifeless  in  his 
grasp.  Hettie  looked  sad  at  his  recital,  but  she  had  no  time 
to  say  much,  for  just  then  Mrs.  and  Miss  Graham  entered, 
and  the  conversation  became  general. 

Time  went  on,  and  a  fortnight  had  elapsed  before  my  father 
thought  of  his  business.  At  length  he  said  that  he  must 
return  to  Linden,  and  requested  an  interview  with  Mrs.  Gra 
ham.  This  lasted  about  an  hour,  and  Mr.  Clifton  then  left 
the  house,  telling  the  young  ladies  he  would  be  with  them,  for 
the  purpose  of  bidding  them  good-by,  in  the  evening.  Mrs. 
Graham  then  summoned  her  youngest  daughter  to  her  room, 
saying  she  had  some  business  of  a  private  nature  with  her. 
Hettie  followed  her  mother  up  stairs,  wondering,  all  the  while, 


BOSTONCOMMON.  41 

of  what  nature  the  private  business  could  be.  Mrs.  Graham 
closed  the  door  carefully,  and,  bidding  Hettie  take  a  seat  at 
her  feet,  commenced  thus  : 

"  Hettie,  dear,  how  should  you  like  to  go  away  down  east, 
and  live  with  or  near  your  sister  Louisa  ?  " 

"0  mother,"  answered  Hettie,  "I  should  like  it,  of  all 
things,  the  best.  Do  let  me  go.  I  love  Louisa  so  dearly ! 
and  Leonora  too,  little  darling,  —  how  I  do  long  to  see  them  ! 
But,  dear  mamma,  I  must  not  think  of  leaving  you.  Who 
would  do  your  caps  and  ruffles  for  you,  or  place  fresh  flowers 
in  your  room  every  morning  ?  0  no,  dear  mother,  I  cannot 
leave  you,  even  to  see  sister  Louisa  and  her  little  girl." 

"  My  dear  child,"  said  Mrs.  Graham,  "  I  am  quite  de 
lighted  with  so  much  affection,  but  listen  to  me  for  a  moment. 
You  know  that  I  am  quite  old,  and  shall  not  probably  live 
many  more  years.  My  dearest,  fondest  wish  is  to  see  my 
poor  girls  well  married  and  settled,  before  I  depart  from  this 
world,  I  hope  for  a  better."  Here  the  old  lady  put  her  hand 
kerchief  to  her  eyes,  and  Hettie  sat  wondering  what  would 
come. next.  • 

Her  mother  continued.  —  "  You  know,  my  dear,  that  I  am 
very  poor ;  that  is,  I  am  not  able  to  give  you  and  Frances 
fortunes  ;  so,  at  my  death,  you  will  be  left  alone,  and  unpro 
vided  for,  unless  you  are  advantageously  married.  Now,  my 
love,  I  will  tell  you  what  I  am  coming  at.  The  rich  Mr. 
Clifton  loves  you  very  much,  and  has  just  asked  your  hand 
of  me  in  marriage.  I  have  thought  well  of  it,  and  have  come 
to  the  conclusion  that,  as  I  am  getting  old  and  may  die  soon, 
it  will  be  the  best  thing  in  the  world  for  you.  He  is  rich, 
respectable,  and  loves  you.  Besides  all  this,  you  will  live 
4* 


42  BOSTON     COMMON. 

near  poor  Louisa,  who  is  very  lonely  without  her  friends. 
Now,  what  says  my  darling  child  ?  " 

"Why,  mamma,"  said  Hettie,  opening  her  large  blue  eyes 
to  their  utmost  extent,  "  I  have  never  thought  of  such  a  thing 
as  being  married  in  all  my  life.  I  should  not  know  how  to  act, 
or  what  to  say.  I  had  much  rather  live  here  and  take  care  of 
you,  than  to  go  away,  even  to  b.e  near  Louisa.  Let  Fanny 
marry  Mr.  Clifton,  —  I  don't  want  him." 

"  But,  my  dear  Hettie,"  answered  her  mother,  "  Mr.  Clifton 
does  not  want  Fanny.  It  is  you  he  loves ;  it  is  you  he 
wishes  to  wed ;  it  is  you  whom  he  will  make  the  rich  and 
happy  Mrs.  Clifton.  I  think,"  added  my  good  grand 
mamma,  "  that  I  should  die  in  peace  could  I  see  you  thus 
pleasantly  situated.  Now,  do  say  yes,  my  dear,  and  make 
your  poor  mother  happy." 

Hettie  wept,  but,  seeing  her  mother  so  much  in  earnest, 
considered  a  moment,  and  then  said : 

"Well,  well,  mamma,  since  you.  wish  it  so  much,  I  will  con 
sent  to  marry  him.  I  suppose  I  can,  if  I  try;  and  I  will,  to 
please  you.  Besides,"  she  added,  mournfully,  "it  does  not 
matter  much  whom  I  marry.  I  never  have  loved  any  one 
yet,  and  probably  never  shall ;  and  by  marrying  Mr.  Clifton 
I  shall  have  the  pleasure  of  living  near  my  favorite  sister. 
There  is  some  consolation  in  that." 

"  But,  my  dear,"  persisted  Mrs.  Graham,  "  you  must  try 
and  love  your  husband,  for  he  is  worthy  of  all  your  affec 
tion." 

"  Well,  mamma,"  replied  her  daughter,  "  I  will  even  try  to 
love  him,  if  you  desire  it." 

Mr.  Cliftoa  called  in  the  evening,  but  Hettie  did  not  see 


BOSTON     COMMON.  43 

him.  She  had  requested  to  be  left  in  her  chamber  undis 
turbed.  A  change  had  come  over  the  young  girl,  —  she  had 
suddenly  expanded  into  a  woman.  Her  light,  happy  feelings 
were  gone  in  a  measure,  and  she  was  preparing  to  enter  her 
new  state  without  a  sigh.  Mr.  Clifton  departed,  thanking 
my  grandmother  for  her  kindness,  and  sending  a  thousand 
loving  messages  to  Hettie.  He  told  Mrs.  Graham  that  he 
should  come  back  in  eight  weeks  to  claim  his  young 
bride,  and  she  assured  him  that  all  should  be  ready  by  that 
time. 

And  how  were  those  eight  weeks  passed  by  Hettie? 
Why,  I  can  scarcely  tell.  Sometimes  she  laughed,  and  some 
times  she  cried.  Once  or  twice  she  told  her  mother  that  she 
was  going  to  write  to  Mr.  Clifton  not  to  come,  for  she  could 
not  marry  him  if  he  did ;  but  her  mother  persuaded  her  not 
to  be  too  hasty,  but  to  look  well  to  the  advantages  which 
would  spring  from  such  a  union. 

"  Advantages  ! "  sighed  Hettie ;  "  once  I  never  supposed 
that  I  could  marry  for  anything  so  low  as  advantages." 

Hettie  was  a  young  and  tender  child,  and  knew  nothing  of 
the  responsible  situation  she  was  so  soon  to  assume.  The  new 
and  beautiful  .dresses  which  her  mother  was  preparing  for  her, 
and  the  idea  of  the  journey,  would  sometimes  please  her 
fancy.  But  her  principal  source  of  consolation  was  the  pros 
pect  she  had  of  soon  being  near  her  favorite  sister. 

At  length  every  article  of  the  trousseau  was  in  readiness, 
and  Mr.  Clifton  was  expected  daily.  One  evening,  Hettie, 
after  trying  on  all  her  new  dresses,  was  just  going  to  supper, 
when  Frances  came  running  up  stairs. 

"  Come,  Hettie,"  said  she,  "  Clifton  has  come,  and  is  call- 


44  BOSTON     COMMON. 

ing  impatiently  for  you.  Dress  yourself  quickly,  and  come 
with  me." 

Hettie  trembled  all  over,  and  burst  into  tears.  "  What 
can  I  do,  Fanny?"  said  she. 

"  Do  ?  "  answered  Fanny ;  "  why,  what  any  sensible  girl 
would  do  if  they  were  in  your  place,  —  dress  yourself,  dry 
your  eyes,  and  away  to  meet  the  bridegroom." 

Hettie  saw  the  immediate  necessity  of  doing  something ;  so, 
arising,  she  dried  her  eyes,  and  was  soon,  with  her  sister's  help, 
dressed,  and  in  the  presence  of  her  intended  husband. 

"  My  dearest  Miss  Graham,"  said  the  gentleman,  coming 
forward  to  meet  her,  and  leading  her  to  a  seat,  "  how  very 
happy  I  am  to  see  you  looking  so  well !  I  trembled,  all  the 
way,  for  fear  you  might  be  ill,  or  something."  He  then,  in  low 
and  thrilling  language,  poured  into  her  ear  the  tale  of  his 
love,  and  ended  by  saying  that  she  should  be  a  second 
Helen  to  him,  and  that  he  would  cherish  and  love  her  as 
fondly  as  ever  man  loved  woman. 

Hettie  was  fascinated  by  the  tones  of  the  gentleman.  His 
language,  the  first  of  the  kind  she  had  ever  listened  to,  seemed 
like  some  beautiful  music  welling  up  from  his  heart ;  and, 
pleased  as  a  child  with  toys  at  the  novelty  of  her  situation, 
she  yielded  a  willing  consent. 

The  morrow's  sun  ushered  in  as  bright  and  beautiful  a  day 
as  one  would  wish  to  see.  At  ten  o'clock  precisely,  the  bride 
elect,  dressed  in  her  rich  robes  and  looking  charmingly  beau 
tiful,  was  handed  into  the  carriage  by  her  enamored  lover. 
Accompanied  by  her  sister  and  a  young  gentleman  acquaint 
ance,  they  rode  out  to  a  little  country  village  and  were  mar 
ried.  They  returned,  as  soon  as  the  ceremony  was  over,  to  a 


BOSTON     COMMON.  45 

large  dinner-party  which  the  good  mother  had  assembled 
while  they  were'  absent. 

The  dinner  was  excellent,  but  my  poor  mother  could 
scarcely  taste  it.  The  rest  of  the  company,  however,  did 
ample  justice  to  it.  After  dinner  her  friends  gathered  around 
her  in  groups,  some  kissing,  some  crying,  and  all  wishing  her 
happiness  and  prosperity.  Poor  Ilettie  was  soon  ready,  and, 
with  tearful  eyes  and  quivering  lips,  kissed  her  mother  and 
sister,  and,  after  one  sad  farewell  look  at  the  weeping  group, 
was  lifted  half  fainting  into  the  carriage,  and  borne  away 
from  her  mother's  dear  though  humble  roof. 

My  parents  stopped  a  week  at  Clifton  Hall,  Lansdowne, 
on  their  way  home.  It  was  evening  when  they  arrived  at 
Linden,  but  everything  was  in  readiness  for  them.  My  aunt 
Huntingdon  had  been  indefatigable  in  her  exertions  to  have 
all  look  bright  and  smiling  for  the  reception  of  the  beloved 
sister,  for  she  feared  all  was  not  quite  right  in  that  quarter. 
But  when  Hettie  arrived  looking  so  blooming  and  cheerful, 
she  felt  quite  relieved,  and  was  the  first  to  welcome  her  to 
her  new  home. 

The  next  day  my  father  gave  a  large  dinner-party.  Of 
course  everybody  was  there,  and  of  course  everybody  was  de 
lighted  with  the  pretty,  childlike  bride  ;  and  she,  in  turn, 
pleased  with  the  novelty  around  her,  and  with  the  attentions 
she  everywhere  received,  soon  recovered  her  spirits,  and  ap 
peared  as  happy  and  gay  as  any  of  her  guests. 

I  will  not '^stop  to  enumerate  all  the  balls,  parties,  and 
social  gatherings,  they  attended  ;  suffice  it  to  say,  their  time 
for  the  first  three  months  was  constantly  occupied,  and  would 
have  been  so  much  longer  but  for  my  father's  checking  it.  He 


46  BOSTONCOMMON. 

wished  to  have  his  Hcttie  to  himself  for  a  while ;  and  she, 
quite  weary  of  dissipation,  acceded  to  his  will  with  pleasure. 
My  parents  now  settled  down  in  peace  and  plenty,  in  their 
new  home.  -  My  father  was  well  content  to  pass  the  remain 
der  of  his  days  in  that  quiet  spot ;  and  my  mother,  surrounded 
with  love  and  affection,  enjoyed  a  calm  sort  of  happiness, 
which,  to  a  person  of  her  serenity  of  mind,  was  far  from 
being  unpleasing.  To  add  to  their  happiness,  my  mother 
soon  gave  promise  of  an  heir  to  her  .husband.  This  was  joy 
ful  news,  indeed,  and  my  father's  cup  was  now  full.  In  his 
approaching  happiness,  he  seemed  to  have  forgotten  the  sor 
row  of  the  past,  and  to  live  only  in  the  future. 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

Is  this  a  birth,  and  this  a  death  ? 
What  little  words,  and  yet  how  full  of  meaning  ! 
Strange  that'such  opposites  should  tread  so  closely 

Upon  the  footsteps  of  each  other.     They  seem  to  us  like  two  dear  brothers, 
One  light,  one  dark  —  one  stern,  one  soft  ;  one  that  we  love  and  pet, 
One  that  we  shiver  to  approach,  — 
And  yet  we  see  them  sleeping  in  each  other's  arms. 

ON  one  fine,  bright  New- Year's  morning,  dear  reader,  did  I 
first  make  my  appearance  into  this  breathing  world.  My 
arrival  had  long  been  expected,  and  was  duly  provided  for. 
This  event  was  the  harbinger  of  joy  to  every  one  who  knew 
and  respected  my  father.  As  for  him,  he  was  almost  beside 
himself  with  happiness.  When  he  pressed  his  first  kiss  of 
affection  upon  my  unconscious  brow,  and  breathed  a  deep,  fer 
vent  blessing  over  his  first-born,  his  emotions  were  almost  too 
great  for  utterance.  He  was  now  happy,  —  every  wish  was 
gratified,  and  he  only  desired  strength  ,and  wisdom  from  on 
high,  to  direct  and  guide  him  aright,  in  bringing  up  his  child 
for  usefulness  and  virtue. 

Dear  father,  couldst  thou  then  but  have  known  the  many 
trials,'  temptations,  and  sorrows,  that  would  cluster  around 
thy  child's  path,  thy  prayer  would  have  been,  "Lord,  take 
this  child  even  now  to  thyself  again.  Let  her  never  live  to 


48  BOSTONCOMMON. 

lament  the  day  she  was  born,  or,  in  the  anguish  of  her  heart, 
to  pray  for  death."  Happily  for  him,  these  dark  forebodings 
were  not  experienced,  and  he  kissed  me  again  and  again,  and 
placed  me  in  the  nurse's  arms. 

The  first  day  my  mother  was  able  to  go  to  the  dining-room, 
my  father  gave  a  feast  to  all  employed  in  his  service ;  and  as 
those  were  the  days  of  good  cheer,  my  health  and  prosperity 
was  drank  in  a  great  many  bumpers  of  wine,  and  no  doubt 
many  considered  it  their  bounden  duty  to  get  tipsy  at  my 
expense. 

My  mother  used  to  tell  a  good  story  of  old  Robert  Glynne, 
my  father's  shoemaker.  About  an  hour  after  dinner,  my 
father,  happening  to  pass  by  the  dining-room,  thought  that  he 
perceived  a  man  lying  under  the  table.  He  went  in,  thinking 
that  he  might  be  ill  or  faint.  He  soon  discovered  that  it  was 
Robert,  in  a  state  of  intoxication.  He  endeavored  to  arouse 
him,  but,  finding  it  in  vain,  was  preparing  to  leave  the  room 
for  assistance,  when  old  Robert  rolled  over,  half  opened  his 
eyes,  and  muttered,  "  Go  it,  boys !  Mr.  Clifton  don't  have  a 
baby  every  year." 

Time  passed.  I  grew,  slept,  and  eat,  like  other  babies,  I 
suppose.  My  father  was  the  happiest  of  men,  that  winter. 
He  used  to  say  to  my  mother,  while  she  sat  holding  me  in  her 
arms,  "  I  fear  I  am  too  happy  —  too  blest,  and  that  some 
thing  will  occur  to  mar  my  joy."  He  began  to  tremble'  lest 
he  might  never  live  to  see  the  child  grow  up,  whom  he  had  so 
long  prayed  for,  and  his  fears  were  too  prophetic. 

One  day  in  the  spring,  my  father  was  suddenly  called  out 
of  town  on  business.  Before  starting,  he  complained  of  a 
severe  headache  and  pain  about  the  region  of  the  temples ; 


BOSTON     COMMON.  49 

but,  as  my  mother  advised  him  to  postpone  his  journey,  he 
smiled,  and  said  that  the  ride  in  the  open  air  might  be  of  ser 
vice  to  him,  and  he  would  go.  He  kissed  her,  and,  bidding 
her  take  good  care  of  "  Bub,"  departed. 

A  few  hours  afterwards,  as  my  mother  was  sitting  quietly 
in  her  nursery,  she  heard  a  slight  bustle  outside  the  front 
door.  She  arose  and  went  into  the  parlor,  for  the  purpose  of 
looking  out  of  the  window,  in  order  to  ascertain  from  whence 
the  noise  proceeded,  when  she  saw,  as  she  opened  the  door, 
Patrick  and  Robert  in  the  act  of  laying  their  master  upon 
the  sofa.  She  stepped  hastily  across  the  room,  and,  taking 
her  husband's  hand,  inquired,  in  a  fright,  what  was  the  mat 
ter.  He  answered,  as  he  placed  his  hand  across  his  brow, 
while  an  expression  of  pain  flitted  over  his  features,  that  his 
head  ached  very  badly  indeed. 

My  mother,  much  alarmed,  desired  Robert  to  go  imme 
diately  for  a  physician,  while  Patrick  related,  in  a  doleful 
tone,  that  his  master  had  come  back  to  the  yard  very  ill, 
about  an  hour  ago ;  and  that  they  had  just  prevailed  upon  him 
to  be  carried  home,  as  he  was  unable  to  walk. 

The  doctor  soon  arrived,  and,  as  my  father  now  began  to 
show  symptoms  of  fever,  he  was  conveyed  to  his  room  and 
laid  upon  his  bed,  —  that  bed  from  which  he  was  never  more 
to  arise.  The  doctor  prescribed  a  soothing  drink,  ordered  his 
head  bound  up,  and  then  left,  saying  he  would  call  again  in 
the  evening.  Soon  after  his  departure,  my  father  called  his 
wife  to  his  bedside,  and  ordered  every  one  else  to  leave  the 
room. 

"  Shut  the  door,  Hettie,"  said  he,  "  and  come  sit  by  me.     I 
have  something  very  sad  to  tell  you." 
5 


50  BOSTON     COMMON. 

My  mother  obeyed,  weeping,  for  her  heart  foreboded  gome 
evil.  She  seated  herself  by  the  dear  patient,  and  took  his 
hand. 

"  Hettie,  love,"  said  he,  solemnly,  "  I  am  going  to  leave 
you.  Weep  not,  dearest  wife,  for  you  have  been  an  angel  of 
comfort  to  me,  during  the  little  while  I  have  been  blest  by 
your  presence.  I  could  have  wished  to  have  lived  to  see  our 
dear  child  a  woman,  but  God  has  ordered  it  otherwise.  I 
have  been  too  happy  with  you  and  our  little  Helen,  and  I 
might  grow  selfish  and  forget  my  Maker  if  I  were  to  live 
longer ;  and  He,  in  mercy,  is  about  to  remove  me  to  a  purer, 
happier  abode,  even  while  my  heart  is  glowing  with  love  and 
gratitude  towards  Him. 

"Hettie,  take  good  care  of  our  child.  Give  her  a  good 
education.  Bring  her  up  in  the  love  and  fear  of  God.  Teach 
her  to  subdue  her  passions,  and  not  to  yield  to  temptation ; 
in  short,  make  her  useful  and  happy.  Do  all  and  be  all  to 
her  that  1  would  have  been  had  I  lived.  Promise  me  this, 
dear  Hettie,  and  I  shall  die  in  peace." 

My  mother,  in  a  broken  voice,  sobbed  out  her  promises. 

"  Now  leave  me,'  Hettie,"  he  continued.  "  I  was  desirous 
of  saying  thus  much  to  you,  for  I  fear  I  shall  soon  be  deliri 
ous.  But,  Hettie  dear,  do  not  weep,  for  I  shall  be  happy, 
and  released  from  all  suffering,  soon.  I  have  long  felt  that  I 
might  suddenly  be  called  upon  to  leave  this  earth,  and  have 
held  myself  in  readiness  for  the  great  change.  Hettie,  you 
have  never  loved  me  as  you  can  love ;  it  was  not  possible, 
my  poor  child.  You  will  love  after  I  am  gone  ;  and  if  you 
do,  and  wish  to  marry,  remember  it  is  with  my  approbation. 
Now  go,  darling,  for  a  while.  I  am  weary,  and  would  sleep." 


BOSTONCOMMON.  51 

My  poor  mother  was  overcome  with  grief,  and  sought  her 
own  room,  where  she  yielded  to  a  violent  fit  of  weeping.  My 
father  continued  to  grow  worse  for  three  or  four  days,  being 
delirious  nearly  all  the  time.  On  the  fifth  day  he  awoke 
from  a  refreshing  sleep,  very  weak,  but  perfectly  sane.  He 
sent  for  Patrick,  and  when  he  came  requested  him  to  go 
and  bring  Mr.  Meredith,  his  lawyer,  without  delay.  Poor 
Patrick  obeyed,  for  his  master's  will  was  a  sacred  law  to 
him. 

Lawyer  Meredith  soon  entered,  and  was  closeted  with  my 
father  for  more  than  an  hour.  After  his  departure,  Mr. 
Billings  called.  He  was  my  father's  first  friend  in  Linden, 
and  had  ever  remained  the  same.  He  was  very  much  aflected 
at  his  approaching  dissolution,  but  promised  to  be  a  friend  to 
his  family,  even  as  he  had  ever  been  to  him.  Many  other  per 
sons  called,  but,  as  he  was  growing  weak  very  fast,  he  desired 
them  all  to  retire,  after  bidding  them  farewell,  and  inquired 
for  his  wife  and  child. 

My  mother  took  me  from  my  little  cradle,  where  I  lay  all 
unconsciously  sleeping,  and  carried  me  in  her  arms  to  my 
father's  bedside.  He  was  lying,  half  raised  by  pillows,  in 
bed,  looking  very  pale  and  wan  ;  but  when  he  saw  my  mother 
approaching  with  her  infant,  he  smiled,  and  said, 

"  Hettie,  give  me  my  child  for  the  last  time." 

My  mother  placed  me  gently  in  his  arms,  and  knelt  by  us 
both.  My  father  again  entreated  her  to  bring  me  up  aright, 
to  spare  no  pains  in  my  education,  and  to  guide  me  into  the 
paths  of  wisdom  and  virtue.  My  poor  mother  pressed  his 
hand,  and  sobbed  out  a  promise  of  entire  obedience  to  his 


52  BOSTONCOMMON. 

wishes.  He  then  bent  his  head  over  mine,  kissed  me  tenderly, 
and  said :  , 

"  God  forever  bless  you,  my  dear  little  one,  and  be  a  kind 
father  to  you.  Now  go,"  he  added,  faintly,  "  to  your  mother's 
arms ;  it  is  the  last  time  you  will  ever  be  in  your  father's." 

My  mother  took  me,  and,  laying  me  quietly  upon  her  lap, 
seated  herself  so  that  the  dying  man  could  look  at  us  both 
without  an  effort.  Long  and  tender  were  the  glances  the 
dear  invalid  cast  upon  us.  The  sun  was  just  setting  when  he 
breathed  his  last.  Quietly,  and  without  a  groan,  he  departed, 
and  his  last  words  were,  "  Hettie,  love,  I  am  going  —  going 
to  see  my  lost  Helen.  Farewell,  dearest  wife  and  child.  Jesus, 
receive  my  spirit." 

Thus  died  my  ever-to-bc-lamented  fattter,  at  the  age  of 
thirty-seven.  The  doctor,  my  mother,  and  uncle  and  aunt 
Huntingdon,  were  untiring  in  their  efforts  to  preserve  him : 
but  all  to  no  purpose.  He  died  as  he  had  lived,  in  peace  with 
God  and  with  all  the  world.  Dear  father,  thy  life  was  a  short 
but  useful  one.  Thou  wert  ripe  for  heaven  when  the  reaper 
found  thee.  Peace  be  to  thy  ashes ! 

My  mother  was  at  first  inconsolable.  She  sought  her  room, 
and  would  see  no  one.  She  had  need  to  weep,  not  for  him,  the 
beloved  saint,  but  for  the  loss  of  a  kind,  indulgent  husband, 
who  had  loved  her  so  affectionately,  and  for  her  infant  child, 
who,  at  the  tender  age  of  four  months,  had  met  with  so  irre 
trievable  a  loss.  And  yet  she  did  not  really  love  him,  but  she 
respected  and  looked  up  to  him  as  an  affectionate  daughter 
would  to  a  tender  parent. 

There  was  a  young  gentleman  boarding  with  my  uncle,  at 
the  time  of  my  father's  death,  by  the  name  of  Frank  "VVeston. 


BOSTON     COMMON.  53 

This  young  man  kindly  volunteered  to  assist  my  uncle  in  his 
preparations  for  the  funeral.  His  offer  was  accepted,  and  he 
called  immediately.  He  was  a  warm-hearted  youth,  and,  on 
learning  the  sad  story  of  the  young  widow  and  fatherless 
babe,  appeared  very  much  interested.  On  coming  out  of  the 
parlor,  after  his  first  visit  at  the  homestead,  he  chanced  to  see 
me  laughing  arid  crowing  in  nurse  Betty's  arms.  He  was 
very  fond  of  children,  and,  after  bowing  to  Betty,  offered  his 
hands  to  me. 

I  almost  sprang  from  her  arms  to  his,  and  laid  my  cheek 
so  confidingly  upon  his  shoulder,  that  he  felt  his  heart  throb 
at  once  with  love  and  pity  for  the  unconscious  babe.  Turning 
to  give  me  back  to  Betty,  he  encountered  the  eyes  of  a  very 
beautiful  young  lady,  in  deep  mourning,  resting  upon  him. 
His  admiration  immediately  seemed  evident  from  the  manner 
in  which  he  regarded  her  ;  but  he  quickly  remembered  him 
self,  and  said,  bowing,  "  Madam,  I  believe  I  have  the  honor 
of  speaking  to  Mrs.  Clifton." 

The  lady  bowed,  while  he  continued  : 

"I  presume  you  know  my  sad  errand  in  your  house?" 
My  mother  put  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes.  "  I  did  not 
wish  to  wound  your  feelings,  Mrs.  Clifton,"  he  went  on  to 
say  ;  "  I  only  wished  to  explain  the  cause  of  my  intrusion." 

Mrs.  Clifton  wiped  her  eyes,  and  said :  "  The  explanation 
was  quite  unnecessary,  sir.  Any  attention  shown  to  my  dear 
departed  husband  will  be  gratefully  received,  and  the  one  who 
bestows  it  will  be  considered  anything  but  an  intruder." 

The  gentleman  bowed,  and,  kissing  me  once  more,  departed. 

Whence  came  that  soft  and  delicious  tremor  that  per 
vaded  my  mother's  whole  frame,  causing  her  heart  to  beat,  and 
5* 


54  BOSTONCOMMON. 

sending  the  warm  blood  bounding  to  her  cheek  ?  The  young 
widow  was  in  love,  and  for  the  first  time.  She  knew  not,  at 
first  what  her  feelings  meant.  She  only  knew  that,  while  she 
still  mourned  her  husband,  yet  that  her  intense  grief  had  sub 
sided,  and  that  a  glad,  joyous  sensation  was  filling  her  heart, 
and  this,  too,  whenever  she  thought  of  the  graceful,  pleasant 
Frank  Weston.  To  do  her  justice,  she  strove  to  put  him  as 
far  out  of  her  mind  as  possible;  but  in  vain.  The  dear 
image  would  come  again  and  again,  gently  forcing  its  way  to 
the  very  portals  of  her  heart,  where  it  would  stand  knocking 
softly  for  an  entrance.  This  was  indeed  love ;  and  the  fair 
widow  at  last  knew  it,  felt  it,  but  determined  to  think  as  little 
of  it  as  possible. 

And  now  the  day  came  that  was  to  see  my  dear  father 
committed  to  the  tomb.  He  was  to  be  buried  under  Masonic 
honors,  and  the  funeral  services  were  intended  to  be  peculiarly 
solemn  and  impressive.  The  house  was  filled  to  overflowing, 
and  a  great  many  stood  in  the  yard.  All  my  father's  friends, 
and  all  who  had  ever  seen  or  heard  of  him,  seemed  to  be 
there.  The  servants  were  provided,  by  the  thoughtfulness  of 
my  uncle  Huntingdon,  with  neat,  plain  suits  of  mourning,  and 
stood  around  in  sad  groups. 

My  mother  had  clothed  the  poor  little  orphan  in  spotless 
white,  and  she  lay  laughing  and  playing  in  the  nurse's  arms. 
Every  one  who  came  near  was  attracted  by  the  smiles  of  the 
delicate  babe,  who  seemed  the  only  happy  feature  in  the 
group,  although  the  one  who  had  sustained  the  greatest  loss. 

The  funeral  prayer  was  very  beautiful  and  solemn.  My 
father  looked  calm  and  smiling,  even  in  death,  and  seemed,  to 
those  who  went  to  take  the  last  look,  as  if  he  were  enjoying 


BOSTON     CO  MM  ON.  55 

a  sweet  sleep,  and  dreaming  of  the  angels.  The  young  wife 
•was  very  much  affected  when  she  found  herself  bending  over 
the  form  of  her  kind  protector  for  the  last  time.  As  she 
silently  wept  over  the  coffin,  she  suddenly  felt  a  soft  hand 
touch  her  own.  Looking  hastily  up,  she  beheld  the  good- 
natured,  pleasant  "countenance  of  Frank  Wcston,  bending  a 
pitying  glance  upon  her.  In  his  arms  he  held  the  poor  little 
babe,  who,  young  as  she  was,  seemed  almost  to  comprehend 
the  meaning  of  the  scene,  and  was  gazing  earnestly  at  the 
face  of  her  dear  father,  ere  the  earth  should  hide  him  forever 
from  her  view.  My  mother  was  deeply  affected  at  this  scene, 
and,  bending  her  lips  to  the  cold  brow  of  her  husband,  wrapped 
her  veil  about  her  head  and  retired. 

In  a  few  moments  afterward  the  procession  was  ready  to 
move.  First  came  a  fine  band  of  music  playing  a  solemn 
march.  The  drums  were  muffled  with  black  crape,  and 
sounded  like  distant  wailing.  Next  came  the  brotherhood  of 
Masons,  whom  my  father  had  so  often  mingled  with  in  hi:; 
lifetime.  These  were  all  dressed  in  their  uniforms,  which 
were  very  simple  and  beautiful.  One  aged  man  carried  the 
Bible,  another  a  prayer-book.  Next  to  the  brotherhood  camo 
the  coffin,  with  its  heavy  pall  and  bearers,  containing  all  that 
was  mortal  of  my  dear  father.  On  the  coffin  were  placed  his 
uniform,  sword,  and  the  insignia  of  his  high  office  in  the 
Lodge.  Behind  the  coffin  were  the  mourners,  and  then  came 
a  long  procession  of  friends,  servants,  etc. ;  and  in  this  order 
they  walked  to  the  church,  where  a  discourse  was  delivered  by 
the  village  pastor.  After  this  the  choir  sang  a  response,  com 
mencing  thus  :  "  So  fades  the  lovely  blooming  flower."  The 
procession  then  moved  slowly  to  the  grave,  the  band  all  the 


56  BOSTON     COMMON. 

•while  playing  a  low,  solemn  requiem  for  the  departed.  The 
remains  were  then  lowered  into  the  grave,  a  prayer  breathed 
over  them,  each  Mason  came  forward  and  cast  his  sprig  of 
evergreen  upon  the  coffin,  and  the  procession  moved  slowly 
out  of  the  church-yard. 

"When  my  mother  returned  from  the  funeral,  she  was  entirely 
overcome  at  the  desolate  appearance  everything  wore,  without 
its  master  and  head.  So  long  as  the  loved  remains  were  in 
the  house,  she  had  felt  as  though  all  were  not  gone ;  but  now, 
when  they  were  entirely  shut  out  from  her  view,  such  a  sense 
of  loneliness  came  over  her,  that  she  determined  that  very 
night  upon  making  immediate  preparations  to  visit  her  mother. 
This  plan  she  put  in  execution  in  about  a  week,  and  when  she 
found  herself  once  more  in  the  home  of  her  infancy,  with  all 
her  friends  about  her,  she  began  to  regain  a  little  of  her  old 
cheerfulness.  She  took  great  pleasure  in  exhibiting  her  babe 
to  all  her  friends,  and  they  made  a  pet  plaything  of  the  little 
Helen.  She  had  another  source  of  pleasure,  also.  At  times 
a  sensation  of  pure  joy  would  steal  into  her  heart,  causing  her 
pulse  to  quicken,  and  her  cheek  to  flush  ;  but  this  happened 
only  when  the  handsome  face  of  Frank  Weston  rose  before  her 
in  imagination.  To  do  her  justice,  however,  she  always  strove 
to  banish  such  thoughts,  as  being  highly  improper  so  soon 
after  her  husband's  death. 

At  length,  after  a  visit  of  three  months,  my  late  father's 
administrator,  lawyer  Meredith,  sent  for  her  to  return  to 
Linden,  as  it  .was  necessary  she  should  be  there  to  look  a 
little  after  her  business.  My  mother  hastened  to  fulfil  his 
request.  Until  this  moment  she  had  never  thought  of  her 


BOSTON      CO  MM  ON.  57 

property,  or  of  what  disposition  her  late  husband  might  have 
made  of  it. 

When  she  arrived  at  home,  Mr.  Meredith  was  ready  to 
receive  her,  and  to  consult  with  her  relative  to  her  husband's 
affairs  ;  and  first  it  was  necessary  to  attend  to  the  reading  of 
the  will.  This  read  as  usual.  My  father  gave  to  his  only 
child  three  fourths  of  all  his  property  by  deed ;  and  the  other 
fourth  as  a  legacy,  to  be  used  during  her  lifetime,  and  dis 
posed  of  at  her  death  as  she  pleased,  to  his  wife.  I  was  to 
be  brought  up  directly  under  my  mother's  eye,  until  I  had 
reached  the  age  of  fifteen ;  after  that,  my  guardian  was  to 
have  the  charge  of  my  education,  until  I  was  either  of  age  or 
married. 

My  late  father  had  two  sisters,  older  than  himself,  who 
were  married,  and  settled  in  Boston.  Isabella,  the  eldest, 
had  married  a  gentleman  in  good  circumstances,  and  high 
standing,  by  the  name  of  Richmond.  Three  children,  all 
older  than  myself,  had  been  the  fruits  of  this  union.  Ger 
trude,  the  second  sister,  had  married  a  statesman,  whose 
name  was  Glenmore.  Four  years  previous  to  my  father's 
death,  Mr.  Glenmore  had  visited  Linden,  and,  being  de 
lighted  with  the  beauty  of  the  place,  had  purchased  a  fine  old 
country-seat,  about  five  miles  from  the  town,  for  a  summer 
residence.  One  child,  a  boy  two  years  my  senior,  had  blessed 
this  union.  My  uncle  Glenmore  was  appointed  my  guardian, 
and  it  was  to  his  charge  I  was  to  be  committed,  when  of  a 
proper  age. 

My  mother,  being  very  lonely  after  her  return,  persuaded 
her  brother  Huntingdon  and  his  wife  to  move  into  her  house. 
They  consented,  and  in  their  company,  together  with  a  few 


58  BOSTON     COMMON. 

select  friends,  among  which  was  Mr.  Weston,  her  time  passed 
very  agreeably. 

When  I  was  about  a  year  old,  my  uncle  Huntingdon,  being 
offered  some  lucrative  business  in  a  southern  city,  decided  to 
remove  there  immediately.  My  mother  was  thus  left  alone 
and  unprotected,  in  a  distant  state,  far  from  all  her  friends. 
This  fact,  together  with  Mr.  Weston's  earnest  solicitations, 
induced  her  to  put  a  period  to  her  widowhood  much  sooner 
than  she  would  have  done  under  any  other  circumstances. 
This  she  did,  however,  with  the  full  approbation  of  her  heart ; 
for  she  knew  that  her  late  husband  would  approve  her  deci 
sion,  could  he  see  her  lonely,  unprotected  condition.  The 
young  couple  were  married,  and  went  immediately  to  board 
with  a  Mr.  May,  Mr.  Weston's  partner  in  business. 

Mr.  May  was,  and  ever  proved  to  be,  a  kind  friend  to  my 
parents.  His  lady  was  a  fine,  sensible  woman,  who  soon 
formed  an  attachment  for  my  mother,  which  has  lasted  for 
more  than  a  quarter  of  a  century.  What  seemed  to  endear 
her  more  to  my  parents,  was  the  fact  of  her  being  so  kind  to 
me,  during  a  long,  severe  illness,  which  attacked  me  soon 
after  their  marriage.  I  was  sick  with  a  variety  of  complaints 
for  more  than  a  year.  Many  a  time  was  my  life  despaired 
of,  and  physicians  and  watchers  were  in  constant  attendance. 
During  this  long,  sad  period,  Mrs.  May  was  untiring  in  her 
kindnesses  and  attentions,  and  proved  the  strength  of  her 
friendship  for  my  parents,  which  many  long  years  have  but 
confirmed. 

At  length,  after  the  utmost  care  and  watchfulness  had 
been  expended,  I  was  pronounced  out  of  danger,  and  in  a 
fair  way  of  recovery.  About  this  time  my  parents  removed 


BOSTON'    COMMON.  59 

into  the  Clifton  Homestead,  where  they  have  ever  since  lived. 
My  step-father  was  doing  a  small  business  of  his  own,  and 
would,  it  was  thought,  in  time,  be  a  rich  man,  should  nothing 
occur  to  prevent. 

My  mother  was  now  content.  She  had  married  the 
object  of  her  warmest  affections,  her  child  had  recovered  from 
a  dangerous  illness,  and  she  had  nothing  further  to  wish  for. 
Happy  mother  !  —  secure  in  the  arms  of  conjugal  love,  which 
years  only  strengthened  and  increased,  her  lot  was  truly  a 
blessed  one. 


CHAPTEK    IX. 

"  We  ranging  down  this  lower  track, 

The  path  we  came  by,  field  and  flower, 
Is  shadowed  by  the  growing  hour, 
Lest  life  should  fail  in  looking  back. 

"  A  life-long  tract  of  time  revealed, 

The  fruitful  hours  of  still  increase, 
Days  ordered  in  a  wealthy  peace, 
And  those  fair  years  its  richest  field." 

TENNYSON. 

MY  step-father,  although  one  of  the  best,  kindest  men  in 
the  world,  was  not  possessed  of  that  energy  and  decision  of 
mind  which  characterized  my  own  father.  He  was  very  apt 
to  leave  his  business  to  other  hands,  while  he  remained  at 
home,  enjoying  himself  with  his  family.  In  consequence  of 
this  oversight,  he  met  with  a  great  many  losses;  and,  with  an 
increasing  family,  and  considerable  sickness,  he  became  in  a 
fefr  years  somewhat  reduced  in  circumstances.  I,  however, 
was  never  made  to  feel  the  poverty  of  my  dear  parents. 
They  shielded  me  with  the  tenderest  care,  and  bestowed  upon 
me  all  the  advantages  of  education  which  could  be  obtained 
in  Linden.  I  was  kept  at  school  year  after  year,  and  had 
books  and  clothes  in  abundance,  even  when  the  other  children 


BOSTON     COMMON.  61 

were  deficient.  My  mother's  motive  in  doing  this  was  her 
strong  desire  to  fulfil  the  dying  injunction  of  my  departed 
father  ;  and  her  present  husband  loved  both  her  and  myself 
too  sincerely  to  oppose,  even  by  a  word  or  look,  whatever  she 
did  for  my  benefit  or  happiness. 

Time  went  on.  My  happy  childhood,  dimmed  by  scarcely 
a  tear,  was  rapidly  passing,  amid  birds,  flowers,  and  all  the 
charms  of  nature.  I  was  surrounded  by  young  companions, 
who  all  dearly  loved  me,  and  with  whom  I  was  very  happy. 
I  cannot  pass  this  period  of  my  life  without  slightly  glanc 
ing  at  a  few  of  the  dear  friends  of  my  youth. 

Close  by  our  homestead  stood  the  large  yellow  house  of  Mr. 
May,  my  step-father's  friend.  This  gentleman  had  several 
daughters,  three  of  whom  were  so  near  my  own  age  that  they 
became  my  companions  at  a  very  early  period,  and  have 
always  continued  my  friends  throughout  all  the  changing 
vicissitudes  of  my  life.  Florence,  the  oldest,  was  my  especial 
favorite,  and  a  sweet  little  creature  she  was.  She  had  beau 
tiful  blue  eyes,  and  golden  hair,  and  one  of  the  tiniest  little 
forms  in  the  world.  Harriet  and  Rose  were  younger  and  less 
fair  than  Florence.  Their  eldest  brother  was  just  three 
months  my  senior.  He  and  I  were  rocked  in  the  same  cra 
dle.  He  was  my  first  little  lover,  and  once,  I  remember,  we 
were  married  in  a  very  formal  manner,  by  my  eldest  brother, 
and  had  cake  passed  around  to  the  company,  upon  bits  of 
birch-bark  for  plates.  He  grew  to  manhood;  was  a  fine, 
talented  youth,  and  bid  fair  to  be  an  honor  to  himself  and 
family ;  but,  alas  for  earthly  hopes !  just  at  the  time  when 
we  were  all  looking  for  his  return  from  college  with  laurels, 
he  was  carried  to  a  lunatic  asylum.  He  had  studied  hard, 
6 


62  B*0  S  T  0  N      C  0  M  M  0  N  . 

and  taxed  his  powers  to  their  utmost ;  and  the  light  of  reason 
had  grown  dimmer  and  dimmer,  and  at  last  went  out  entirely. 
Dear  Arthur,  how  sad  was  thy  fate  ! 

Well  do  I  remember  the  anguished,  tearful  faces  that  met 
mine,  when  I  visited  his  father's  the  first  time  after  this  ter 
rible  news  had  reached  them.  Poor  Florence  wept  as  though 
her  heart  would  break.  Harriet  and  Rose  vented  their  grief 
in  sad  and  tearful  exclamations.  The  mother  sat  perfectly 
still,  and  once  or  twice  I  saw  her  raise  her  eyes  to  heaven, 
with  such  an  expression  of  woe  as  made  me  shudder.  And 
then  I  remember  of  beguiling  the  girls  out  upon  one  of  our 
own  beautiful  walks ;  but  every  step  was  painful,  for  we  had 
strolled  there  so  many  times  with  Arthur,  that  we  were  fain 
to  return  to  the  house,  and  weep,  —  weep  for  the  beautiful,  the 
gifted  one,  who  languished  so  far  from  us.  0,  there  is  no 
grief  like  that  caused  by  insanity.  To  look  upon  him  we 
loved  and  cherished  so  fondly,  to  behold  his  glorious  intellect 
that  we  so  ardently  worshipped  lying  in  ruins  at  our  feet,  as 
it  were,  will  snap  all  the  chords  of  happiness,  and  fill  our 
hearts  with  a  double  anguish.  Happily  for  us,  however,  in  a 
few  years  our  beloved  Arthur  was  completely  restored  to 
reason,  and  returned  once  more  to  the  heart  of  that  family 
of  which  he  was  the  light,  the  centre,  and  the  joy. 

My  step-father  had  an  only  brother,  —  Mr.  Edgar  Weston, 
who  lived  very  near  us  also.  This  gentleman  had  two 
daughters,  whom  I  have  ever  remembered  among  my  earliest 
and  dearest  friends.  Marion  and  Jessie  Weston  were  two 
very  lovely  girls,  and  many  is  the  good  romp  I  have  had 
with  them.  We  have  strolled  over  every  part  of  sweet 
Linden  together,  and  trimmed  every  rock  in  its  fields  with 


B  0  S  T  0  N     C  0  M  M  0  N  .  63 

blossoms.  0,  the  memory  of  those  sweet  days  is  like  the 
odor  of  a  fragrant  flower !  It  comes  again  and  again,  long 
after  its  petals  have  drooped  and  died. 

I  shall  speak  of  but  one  other  playmate ;  but  she  was  the 
chosen  one  of  my  heart.  Dear,  stately  Katherine  Merton ! 
step  forward;  for  you  are  destined  to  play  quite  a  part  in 
this  humble  narrative. 

I  was  eight  years  of  age  before  I  guessed  that  I  had  an 
other  self,  a  kindred  spirit,  somewhere  waiting  to  meet  me. 
I  was  going  to  church,  one  bright  Sabbath  day,  when  I  en 
countered  one  of  the  prettiest  little  faces  in  the  world.  She 
looked  at  me,  and  smiled  so  pleasantly,  that  my  heart  was 
won  at  once,  and  I  stepped  cautiously  to  her  side,  and  com 
menced  the  process  of  getting  acquainted.  I  told  my  mother, 
when  I  returned  home,  that  I  had  met  a  dear  little  girl,  who 
had  told  me  that  her  name  was  Katie  Merton,  and  had  invited 
me  to  come  and  visit  her  the  next  week.  My  mother  in 
formed  me  that  Mr.  Merton,  the  father  of  Kate,  had  moved 
into  the  village  only  a  few  days  before,  and  that,  if  I  liked 
the  little  girl,  I  might  visit  her,  some  time.  I  could  not  get 
Kate's  image  from  my  mind,  but  thought  of  her  during  the 
evening  and  dreamed  of  her  all  night.  Something  always 
prevented  me  from  going  to  see  Kat<j,  all  that  summer ;  but  I 
did  not  forget  her,  or  the  few  pleasant  words  she  had  said  to 
me  at  our  first  meeting. 

At  length,  after  a  long  vacation,  the  autumn  term  of  our 
school  commenced,  and  I  was  duly  installed  a  member.  It 
was  to  be  kept,  I  learned,  by  a  Miss  Dormer,  an  aunt  of 
Katherine  Morton's.  Of  course  she  would  be  there,  and  I 
should  have  the  pleasure  of  a  further  acquaintance  with  my 


64  BOSTON' COMMON. 

• 
sweet  little  friend  ;  and  what  dear,  good  friends  we  would  be ! 

I  would  lend  her  all  my  books,  bring  her  the  prettiest  flowers 
from  my  garden,  give  her  half  my  sweetmeats  and  toys,  — 
0,  I  would  be  so  very  kind  to  her !  These  were  the  thoughts 
that  filled  my  mind,  as  I  walked  to  the  school-house  the  first 
day  of  the  term.  On  entering,  Miss  Dormer  gave  me  a  seat ; 
and  what  was  my  surprise  and  delight  on  finding  it  to  be  the 
next  one  to  Katie  Merton's  !  She  recognized  me  at  once,  and 
sent  me  one  of  her  own  glad,  happy  smiles.  Dear  Kate ! 
How  many,  many  times,  since  then,  hast  thou  cheered  me  with 
that  same  cherished  smile  of  thine  !  and  sometimes,  my  Kate, 
thou  hast  wept  with  me  also,  when  my  heart  was  too  sad  to 
bear  even  the  weight  of  thy  smiles. 

From  that  moment  we  were  the  best  of  friends.  We 
shared  together  the  same  seat  and  books  for  many  years  at 
school,  ciphered  from  the  same  slate,  hunted  geographical 
mysteries  from  the  same  map,  —  in  short,  were  one,  as  far 
as  the  most  perfect  union  of  ideas  and  feelings  went.  Our 
friendship  soon  became  proverbial  throughout  the  school,  and 
no  one  would  have  thought  of  speaking  of  Katherine  Merton 
and  Helen  Clifton  separately.  We  were  ever  together,  ever 
happy  when  in  each  other's  society,  and  all  seemed  to  look 
upon  it  as  perfectly  right,  and  a  matter  of  course. 

I  remember  the  severest  trial  I  ever  knew,  when  a  child, 
resulted  from  a  little  circumstance  which,  although  it  may 
seem  trifling  enough  now,  was  productive  then  of  a  bitter 
pain.  We  had  exhausted  Miss  Dormer's  patience,  one  day, 
by  whispering,  and  she  separated  us.  We  suffered  so  much 
from  it,  however,  that  she  permitted  us  to  take  our  seats 
together  again  the  next  day.  She  saw  that  we  were  suffi- 


BOSTON    COMMON.  65 

ciently  punished,  and  would  not  be  likely  to  offend  again. 
What  bright,  happy  days  were  those !  As  I  look  back  upon 
them  now,  they  seem  like  the  faint  remembrance  of  some 
beautiful  music,  that  has  passed  away  and  lost  itself  in  its 
own  deliciousness. 

I  pass  hastily  over  my  school-days,  and  come  at  once  to 
the  time  when  I  was  nearly  fifteen  years  of  age.  I  had  had 
five  brothers ;  but  one,  a  sweet  little  golden-haired  cherub, 
had  died  in  early  infancy,  when  I  was  too  young  to  realize 
my  loss,  and  too  careless  and  happy  to  remember  or  grieve 
over  it  long.  I  was  very  proud  and  glad  to  have  my  four 
brothers,  but  always  regretted  that  I  did  not  have  a  sister. 
I  thought  it  would  be  so  nice  to  have  one  to  make  dresses 
for,  when  I  was  tired  of  making  doll's  clothes,  and  also  to 
show  to  Kate.  She  had  five  sisters ;  and  I  thought  it  so  hard 
for  her  to  have  so  many,  and  me  none.  How  glad  and  happy 
was  I,  therefore,  to  awaken  one  morning  and  find  my  wish 
realized !  I  had  become  the  owner  of  a  sister.  I  could 
scarcely  walk  to  the  nursery,  but  rather  flew,  and  waited  not 
until  I  had  hugged  the  tiny  thing  in  my  arms,  and  almost 
strangled  it  with  my  kisses.  I  promised  it  every  beautiful 
thing  that  could  possibly  be  procured,  and  begged  hard  to  be 
allowed  to  name  it  myself.  My  mother  consented,  and  I  im 
mediately  baptized  it  with  a  kiss,  and  called  it  by  the  sweet 
name  of  Constance.  I  was  so  happy  that  I  half  forgot  even 
Kate  for  a  while.  But  I  soon  wearied  of  my  delicate  new 
toy,  and,  leaving  it  to  the  care  of  the  nurse,  contented  myself 
with  visiting  and  fondly  caressing  it  every  day  before  I  went 
to  school. 

I  must  now  speak  of  a  person  who  figured  somewhat  largely 
6* 


66  BOSTON    COMMON. 

at  this  period  of  my  life.  For  some  months  past,  I  had 
noticed  a  tall,  singular-looking  being  at  church,  who,  instead 
of  listening  to  the  sermon,  used  to  sit  staring  at  me  all  ser 
vice-time.  I  was  too  young  and  inexperienced  at  the  time 
to  even  guess  what  were  his  motives  for  quizzing  me  so  ear 
nestly.  Others  had  noticed,  also,  that  there  was  some  sort 
of  an  attraction  in  Mr.  Weston's  pew  for  Eben  Stackpole.  I 
could  hear  the  suppressed  laughing,  and  see  the  merry  looks 
with  which  poor  Eben  was  regarded.  Thanks  to  the  immo 
bility  of  his  nature,  however,  he  did  not  even  notice  it ;  but, 
true  as  the  needle  to  the  pole,  his  eyes  ever  pointed  towards 
their  magnet. 

At  length  this  intolerable  staring  became  unbearable;  and, 
one  Sunday  afternoon,  I  resolved  to  stare  at  him  in  return, 
and  see  what  effect  it  would  have.  I  turned  suddenly,  there 
fore,  and  fixed  my  eyes  upon  him.  It  was  enough,  however. 
The  poor  young  man  looked  so  pitifully  in  love,  and  dropped 
his  eyes  so  bashfully  as  they  encountered  mine,  that  I  could 
not  forbear  laughing  aloud,  and  many  of  the  congregation 
followed  my  example. 

The  scene  was  too  ridiculous  to  be  repeated,  however.  I 
was  deeply  mortified  and  indignant,  and  resolved  that  I  would 
not  go  to  church  again  so  long  as  Eben  Stackpole  occupied 
that  seat.  So  it  happened,  for  the  next  three  Sabbaths,  I  was 
very  ill,  although  I  cannot  remember  what  were  my  symptoms 
now.  But  my  non-appearance  had  driven  poor  Eben  half 
frantic,  and  he  resolved  upon  desperate  measures.  The  third 
Monday,  I  received  a  neat  little  letter,  delivered  to  me  in 
quite  a  mysterious  manner,  by  a  friend  of  Eben's.  I  imme 
diately  shut  myself  in  my  room,  and  opened  the  letter  in  a 


BOSTONCOMMON.  O7 

very  delicate  manner,  wondering,  all  the  while,  what  Eben 
Stackpole  could  find  to  write  to  me  about. 

The  letter  was  short,  but  most  respectful ;  breathing  the 
fondest,  purest  love  for  me,  and  asking,  nay,  beseeching  me 
to  unite  my  destiny  to  his  by  marriage.  I  was  quite  sur 
prised,  and  half  pleased  also  —  as  what  girl  of  fifteen  is  not  ? 
—  with  the  idea  of  a  real  flesh-and-blood  lover,  to  replace 
the  shadowy  knights  and  heroes  she  has  been  dreaming  of  all 
her  life.  But  the  next  thought  was,  "  I  can  never  marry 
this  Eben  Stackpole  I  do  not  love  him,  and  never  can.  I 
would  n't  if  I  could.  He  is  too  tall,  too  ghost-like,  too  Ichabod 
Graneish,  for  me.  0  no !  he  does  not  in  the  least  resemble 
my  ideal,  and  I  will  never  marry  him."  I  was  in  a  sad  dilem 
ma  ;  but,  instead  of  applying  to  my  mother,  who  would  have 
set  me  right  at  once,  I  resolved  to  tell  Kate  Merton  all  about 
the  mighty  affair.  So  I  sent  a  mysterious  little  note  to  her, 
hinting  that  something  awful  had  taken  place,  and  requesting 
her  presence  immediately. 

She  soon  came,  her  face  all  aglow  with  curiosity.  I  took 
her  to  my  room,  and  opened  my  whole  heart  to  her  at  once 
in  this  manner:  "  Forgive  me,  Kate,  if  I  have  had  a  secret 
from  you.  It  is  the  first  and  only  one  I  ever  had,  and  I 
should  have  told  you  at  once  of  it,  had  I  not"  been  ashamed 
to." 

Kate  was  all  surprise.  I  went  on  in  a  strain  of  importance. 
"  Katherine,  I  have  a  lover  —  a  real  lover !  " 

"  A  lover  !  "  almost  screamed  Kate. 

"  Yes,  ma  chere,  a  lover ;  and,  to  convince  you,  behold," 
continued  I,  presenting  her  triumphantly  with  the  letter. 

She  seized  it  eagerly,  and  read  the  whole  through  to  the 


68  BOSTONCOMMON. 

end ;  but,  when  she  came  to  the  name  at  the  bottom  of  the 
page,  she  burst  into  a  laugh,  and  exclaimed, 

"  No,  Helen,  I  will  never  give  my  consent  for  you  to  marry 
that  man.  Such  a  clown  !  —  such  a  clodhopper !  No,  my 
sweet  Nell,  you  cannot  think  of  such  a  thing." 

"  That  is  just  what  I  want  of  you,"  answered  I,  —  "  to 
advise  me  what  to  do  in  this  affair." 

"  I  will  assist  you  all  in  my  power,"  said  Kate.  So  to 
work  we  went,  and,  with  the  blindness  and  ignorance  of  fif 
teen,  composed  such  an  epistle  to  regale  poor  Eben  with,  as 
must  have  astonished  the  world  and  upset  empires,  could  it 
have  been  duly  appreciated.  This  I  sent  by  the  same  bearer 
who  had  brought  me  the  first  one.  I  learned  afterwards  how 
Eben  received  that  silly  little  missive.  He  turned  pale  on 
reading  its  contents,  and  took  to  his  room  immediately,  where 
he  remained  three  days  in  total  abstinence,  and  then  emerged 
from  his  solitude  with  his  love  undimmed  and  unshaken,  but 
a  sadder  and  a  wiser  man. 


CHAPTER    X. 

"  I  did  hear  you  talk, 
Far  above  singing  —  after  you  were  gone, 
I  grew  acquainted  with  my  heart, 
And  searched  what  stirred  it  so  — 
Alas  !  I  found  it  Love." 

HYPERION. 

AT  the  commencement  of  my  fifteenth  year,  by  my  father's 
will  I  should  have  been  placed  under  my  guardian's  care,  for 
the  purpose  of  finishing  my  education ;  but,  as  he  was  in  Con 
gress  at  this  time,  it  was  deferred  for  a  while.  About  this 
period  my  health  began  to  fail  in  a  measure,  and  I  was  sent 
from  home  for  a  few  weeks,  to  visit  some  friends  who  lived 
in  a  little  country  village,  not  many  miles  from  Linden. 

This  visit  was  of  the  utmost  benefit  to  me.  The  cheerful 
company,  rides,  walks,  and  sails,  soon  brought  the  roses  back 
to  my  cheek,  and  at  the  expiration  of  the  time  allotted  for  the 
visit  I  prepared  with  regret  to  return  home,  and  leave  my 
kind  friends. 

The  day  before  I  started  was  remarkable  for  its  fineness 
and  beauty,  and,  being  the  Sabbath,  it  was  proposed  that  we 
should  all  go  to  church  in  the  morning.  Our  walk  lay 
through  the  most  beautiful  piece  of  woods,  vocal  with  the 


70  ^         BOSTON    COMMON. 

V 

• 
song  of  birds,  and  through  whose  denseness  no  ray  of  the  sun 

could  pierce.  I  was  walking  with  a  young  lady  friend  of 
mine,  and  talking  very  fast  upon  all  sorts  of  wild  things, 
when  she  suddenly  pulled  my  sleeve,  and  said,  in  a  whisper, 

"  Look,  Helen,  there  is  the  Apollo  of  our  village,  just  on 
your  right.  Is  he  not  a  love  of  a  man?" 

I  looked  up  quickly  at  this  strange  speech,  but  had  no 
time  to  answer,  for  my  eyes  encountered  those  of  a  very 
young  man,  scarcely  twenty-one,  I  should  think.  The  glance 
was  so  sudden,  so  unexpected,  that  I  was  obliged  to  drop  my 
eyes  ere  they  had  half  analyzed  the  look  he  gave  me. 

A  strange,  wild  feeling  pervaded  my  heart  at  this  sudden 
encounter ;  the  blood  rushed  to  my  cheek,  my  pulse  beat 
quickly,  and  a  sensation  of  strong  interest  for  the  youthful 
stranger  took  possession  of  my  heart.  In  another  moment, 
he  had  come  close  beside  us,  and  my  friend  had  introduced 
us  to  each  other  as  "Miss  Clifton  —  Mr.  Hastings,"  before  I 
had  time  to  hide  my  confusion. 

The  young  stranger  seemed  in  a  moment  to  comprehend 
my  feelings  for  him,  but,  with  the  courtesy  of  a  well-bred 
gentleman,  began  to  talk  upon  indifferent  subjects. 

"How  long  do  you  intend  remaining  at  Bardville,  Miss 
Clifton?"  said  he,  with  one  of  the  most  seducing  voices  in 
the  world. 

"  I  return  to  Linden  to-morrow,"  I  answered. 

"  So  soon  ?  "  said  he  ;  "  how  unfortunate  that  you  should 
have  been  here  so  long,  and  I  not  have  met  you  until  almost 
at  the  moment  of  your  departure  ! " 

"How  knew  you,"  I  asked,  "  that  I  was  here?" 

"  0,"  replied  he,  "  I  learned  of  your  arrival  long  ago,  but 


BOSTON    COMMON.  71 

was  prevented,  by  illness,  from  paying  my  court  to  you.  I 
regret  it  exceedingly,"  added  he,  "  but  trust  you  have  found 
the  pleasure  of  our  little  village  sufficient  to  lure  you  back 
again,  at  no  very  distant  period." 

"  Ah !  "  thought  I,  "  had  I  but  met  thee  before,  how  com 
plete  would  have  been  my  happiness!" 

In  this  pleasant  converse  we  reached  the  church.  Hast 
ings  attended  us  to  our  pew-door,  and  then,  bowing  gracefully, 
left  for  his  own.  I  must  confess  that  I  did  not  pay  much 
heed  to  good  Parson  Marvme's  sermon  that  day.  My  mind 
was  wholly  preoccupied  with  the  image  of  the  handsome 
young  stranger  whom  I  had  met  so  unexpectedly.  When  I 
arrived  at  home,  my  young  friends  bantered  me  upon  my 
absence  of  mind,  as  they  called  it;  but  in  the  midst  of  it  I 
broke  from  them  all,  and  fled  into  my  own  room,  where  I 
could  dream  over  my  beautiful  new  thoughts  alone,  and 
weave  a  sunny  web  for  the  future  from  ou»  morning's  en 
counter. 

Roland  Hastings !  why  wert  thou  sent,  at  that  time,  to  be 
a  dark  blight  to  all  my  young  life's  happiness  ?  Why  was  I 
destined  so  wildly,  so  madly,  to  love  thee?  Why  was  thy 
face  invested  with  almost  an  angel's  beauty,  thy  form  so 
graceful,  thy  language  so  insinuating,  thy  tones  so  bewitch 
ing  ?  Alas  the  day  that  ever  I  saw  thee !  Destiny  surely 
owed  me  some  cruel  spite,  when  she  suffered  thee  to  cross  my 
path  in  such  an  evil  hour.  Yes,  Roland  Hastings  was  beau 
tiful.  It  was  not  the  eyes,  so  glorious  in  their  dark,  wild 
beauty ;  not  the  fair  brow,  shaded  by  clustering  curls ;  not 
the  mouth,  where  a  thousand  smiles  did  lurk ;  but  a  mingling 
of  the  whole,  in  one  grand  centre,  that  caught  and  arrested 


72  BOSTONCOMMON. 

my  youthful  fancy.  Let  me  describe  him  a  little  more  accu 
rately. 

Roland  Hastings  was  a  little  above  the  middle  height,  — 
slightly  yet  firmly  made.  His  complexion  was  peculiarly 
fair  and  delicate,  owing,  probably,  to  his  recent  illness.  His 
high,  noble  brow  was  shaded  by  long  chestnut  curls,  that 
floated  nearly  to  his  shoulders,  and  the  eyebrows  were  so 
heavy  and  arching,  that  they  nearly  concealed  a  pair  of  the 
finest  blue  eyes  in  the  world.  But  his  mouth  was  his  chief 
attraction.  In  its  delicate  chiselling  you  read  his  character 
at  a  glance.  You  saw  there  kindness,  generosity,  and  frank 
ness,  mingled  with  such  a  love  of  ease  and  pleasure  as  almost 
made  you  shudder.  The  short  upper  lip  was  full  of  pride  and 
sarcasm,  of  which  a  lurking  smile  betrayed  that  he  always 
had  a  fund  ready,  and  might  select  you  for  the  next  victim. 

Beautiful  as  I  then  thought  him,  I  should  hardly  call 
him  so  at  present.  His  face  lacked  energy  and  expression, 
and  had  too  much  sensuality  in  it,  to  charm  me  now.  Had  I 
met  Roland  Hastings  five  or  six  years  later,  I  should,  perhaps, 
never  have  thought  of  loving  him. 

After  dreaming  of  him  all  night,  I  arose  at  an  early  hour, 
and  packed  rny  trunk,  preparatory  to  returning  home.  I 
waited  anxiously  all  the  morning,  in  the  hope  of  seeing  Hast 
ings,  "  for  surely,"  thought  I,  "  he  seemed  to  feel  so  badly 
about  my  going  away,  he  will  not  fail  to  call  and  bid  me 
good-by."  My  hopes  were  doomed  to  be  blasted,  however. 
He  had  probably  forgotten  my  very  existence,  and  with  this 
humiliating  thought  I  bade  adieu  to  my  kind  friends,  and 
entered  the  carriage  my  parents  had  sent  to  convey  me  home. 

I  thought  of  Roland  all  the  way,  and  scarcely  heeded  the 


BOSTONCOMMON.  73 

greetings  of  my  parents  and  brothers,  but,  pretending  to  be 
greatly  fatigued,  sought  my  own  room,  and,  throwing  myself 
upon  the  little  bed  I  had  so  often  slept  peacefully  in,  gave 
vent  to  a  paroxysm  of  tears.  And  yet  I  could  scarcely  ana 
lyze  my  feelings.  I  only  knew  there  was  a  sad  weight  of 
loneliness  at  my  heart,  and  that  I  felt  a  yearning  to  go  back 
again  to  Bardville,  for  that  was  the  home  of  one  whom  I  had 
seen  but  for  a  moment,  yet  had  seen  but  to  love. 

"Helen,"  said  my  mother,  one  morning,  soon  after  my 
return  home,  "  what  is  the  matter  with  you  since  you  came 
back  ?  Are  you  still  sick,  or  do  you  wish  to  return,  and  see 
some  one  whom  you  left  in  Bardville?  Come,  cheer  up, 
child,  or  I  shall  think  you  are  in  love ;  and  I  should  feel  sad 
enough  to  see  you  pining  away  on  that  account." 

These  words  —  said  half  in  earnest,  half  in  jest  —  set  me 
to  thinking,  and  I  did  not  wonder  that  my  mother  spoke  of 
my  appearance.  I  knew  that  I  felt  listless  and  unhappy, 
and  must  appear  so.  Even  Kate  Merton  had  noticed  the 
change  in  me,  without  being  able  to  account  for  it,  for  I 
guarded  my  half-fledged  love  even  from  her  friendly  eyes.  I 
therefore  determined  to  conceal  my  feelings  hereafter,  and  to 
assume  my  accustomed  cheerfulness,  and  be  as  gay  as  possi 
ble.  So  I  schooled  my  heart  to  obedience,  dressed  my  face 
in  smiles,  and  with  my  old  appearance  of  happiness,  soon  put 
all  suspicions  at  rest. 

About  a  fortnight  after  my  return  home,  I  one  day  re 
ceived  a  letter  from  my  lady  friend  in  Bardville.  How 
eagerly  did  I  grasp  the  little  missive,  and  how  dear  did  it 
seem  to  me,  for  it  had  come  from  the  home  of  Roland !  I 
broke  the  seal  hastily,  and  ran  my  eyes  carelessly  over  the 
7 


74  BOSTONCOMMON. 

contents;  then,  half  dissatisfied,  threw  it  down,  exclaim 
ing* 

"  Not  a  word  about  Koland  ?  She  might  just  have  writ 
ten  his  name,  so  that  I  could  see  how  it  looks  upon  paper." 
As  I  spoke,  my  eyes  fell  upon  the  bottom  part  of  the  rejected 
letter,  and  I  read  the  name  "  Roland  Hastings." 

I  grasped  the  paper,  and,  my  eyes  almost  burning  into  the 
sheet,  read,  "  Roland  Hastings  was  here,  a  few  evenings 
since,  and  inquired  for  you.  Pie  desires  to  be  remembered  to 
you." 

What  simple  words !  —  and  yet,  simple  and  unimportant  as 
they  were,  I  valued  them  more  than  choice  gold,  and  was 
never  weary  of  reading  them.  I  laid  the  letter  under  my  pil 
low,  that  I  might  read  the  loved  name  by  the  first  morning's 
light.  I  stole  to  my  room  twenty  times  a  day  and  looked  at 
the  name  written  so  fairly  on  the  white  sheet,  and  would 
think  what  a  beautiful  name  it  was,  and  wonder  if  I  should 
ever  see  the  owner  again. 

I  heard  no  more  of  Roland,  all  through  the  summer, 
although  I  mentioned  his  name  in  a  careless  way  to  my  corres 
pondent  two  or  three  times.  But,  as  she  did  not  dream  of  the 
interest  I  felt  in  that  quarter,  she  entirely  overlooked  my 
hints ;  and  the  one  interview  I  had  had  with  Hastings,  and  the 
few  words  written  of  him,  were  all  I  had  to  live  upon  during 
the  summer.  But  I  did  not  forget  him  in  the  least ;  — 
no,  his  image  was  indelibly  engraven  upon  my  heart,  and 
although  I  tried  to  be  as  cheerful  as  ever,  a  sadness  would 
creep  over  me  at  times,  that  I  found  it  impossible  to  resist. 

Autumn  came  at  last,  with  its  gorgeous  scenery,  ripened 
harvests,  and  mellow  fruits.  I  had  been  ill  for  a  few  weeks 


BOSTON      COMMON.  70 

but,  as  I  had  now  recovered,  my  mother  proposed,  one  fine 
Sabbath  towards  the  close  of  September,  that  I  should  go  to 
church.  I  was  deeply  interested  in  the  sermon,  as  I  had  not 
listened  to  one  for  some  weeks,  and  had  eyes  for  none  but  the 
minister.  After  the  service  was  over,  as  we  were  coming  out 
of  the  church,  I  saw  a  face  that  sent  the  blood  rushing  quickly 
through  my  veins,  and  caused  a  warm  blush  to  overspread 
my  cheeks.  —  But  could  it  be?  I  looked  again  —  I  was  not 
mistaken  —  it  was  surely  he — my  half-hour  acquaintance  of 
Bardville,  looking  ten  times  handsomer  and  more  interesting 
than  ever. 

I  gazed  at  him  without  the  wish  or  power  of  withdrawing 
my  eyes,  until  I  attracted  the  attention  of  a  young  friend  of 
mine,  who  bantered  me  upon  my  star-gazing,  as  she  called  it, 
but  added  that  she  did  not  wonder  at  my  looking  at  that 
young  gentleman,  for  she  had  been  doing  the  same  thing,  all 
the  morning. 

"  Is  he  not  a  perfect  prince  ?  "  continued  she.  "  I  am  de 
termined  to  fall  desperately  in  love  with  him,  for  papa  says 
that  he  has  come  here  to  live,  and  there  will  be  plenty  of 
time  for  me  to  do  it  in." 

Her  words  conveyed  both  pleasure  and  pain  to  me  ;  pleas 
ure,  that  he,  my  heart's  idol,  had  indeed  come  to  live  with 
us,  and  pain,  that  another  should  couple  her  name  with  his  in 
that  manner.  I  left  her  at  her  door,  and  pursued  my  way 
home,  wondering  what  could  have  induced  Hastings  to  come 
to  Linden,  and  what  could  be  his  business  here.  I  passed  an 
almost  sleepless  night,  and  arose  the  next  morning  filled  with 
happiness ;  for  the  thought  that  he  was  going  to  live  in  Lin- 


76  BOSTON     COMMON. 

den  because  it  was  my  home,  had  taken  entire  possession  of 
my  mind,  and  was  far  too  pleasing  to  be  lightly  rejected. 

As  soon  as  breakfast  was  over,  I  sought  Mary  Listen,  my 
friend  of  the  day  before,  in  the  hope  of  gaining  more  infor 
mation  from  her  concerning  Hastings.  She  soon  began  to 
speak  of  him,  and,  after  expatiating  a  while  upon  his  "  won 
drous  beauty,"  his  "  floating  hair,  soul-subduing  eyes,"  &c., 
told  me  that  he  had  come  to  Linden  for  the  purpose  of  going 
into  business  with  a  gentleman.  I  saw  that  Mary  was  very 
much  interested  in  the  young  man,  but  it  did  not  cause  me 
much  trouble,  for  I  felt  quite  willing  to  match  my  advan 
tages  with  hers,  any  day.  Poor  Mary,  how  sad  a  fate  was 
thine  !  Thy  memory  comes  to  me  through  the  long  vista  of 
years  that  have  passed  since  thy  death,  and  a  sadness  at  thy 
untimely  end  creeps  over  my  heart,  and  fills  my  eyes  with 
tears  of  regret.  Mary  loved,  and,  not  meeting  with  a  return 
of  love  from  the  beloved  object,  faded  away,  and  died  broken 
hearted. 

Time  passed.  I  had  seen  Roland  at  church,  and  in  the 
streets  once  or' twice,  but  he  had  evidently  forgotten  me,  and 
passed  me  as  a  perfect  stranger.  How  mortifying,  that  I, 
Helen  Clifton,  the  greatest  match  in  the  village,  should  be 
neglected  and  forgotten  for  almost  anybody  else  !  It  set  my 
blood  on  fire  to  think  of  it.  I  did  not  then  know  that  this 
was  a  part  of  his  plan.  Koland  Hastings  had  a  deep  purpose 
in  view,  in  treating  me  with  coldness  and  neglect.  I  was 
rich,  and  he  poor,  and  a  deal  too  proud  to  woo  and  win  me 
as  an  honest  man  should;  but  he  was  determined  that  most  of 
the  wooing  should  be  on  my  side,  so  that  none  could  say  it 
was  my  money  he  was  seeking.  He  knew  that  I  had  loved 


BOSTON     COMMON.  77 

him  from  the  first  moment  we  had  met ;  he  had  read  my 
heart  aright,  and,  as  he  felt  quite  sure  of  me  at  any  time,  ho 
resolved  to  let  things  take  their  own  course. 

A  few  weeks  after  his  arrival  at  Linden,  I  met  him  at  a 
ball,  and,  as  I  supposed  from  his  non-recognition  that  he  had 
forgotten  me,  I  sought  and  obtained  an  introduction  to  this 
lion  of  the  evening.  My  happiness  was  almost  too  great 
when  I  found  myself  dancing  opposite  him,  and  received  his 
polite  attentions  as  a  partner.  How  much  I  loved  him,  and 
how  handsome  I  thought  him  !  No  wonder  half  the  girls  in 
the  room  were  envying  me ;  but  they  did  not  have  occasion 
to  envy  me  long,  for  as  soon  as  the  dance  was  finished  he  left 
me,  and  never  by  word  or  look  noticed  me  for  the  remainder 
of  the  evening. 

I  cannot  describe  his  conduct  to  me  for  the  rest  of  the  sea 
son.  He  would  sometimes  be  all  smiles  and  joy  to  see  me, 
and  at  others  would  scarcely  notice  me  by  a  look.  He  would 
venture  once  in  a  while  to  walk  by  my  side  from  a  singing- 
school  or  lecture,  but  he  never  would  offer  his  arm,  or  appear 
in  the  least  like  a  lover. 

In  December  my  uncle  Glenmore  arrived,  and.  brought 
with  him  his  son,  whom  I  had  not  seen  since  he  was  a  little 
boy.  He  carried  him  directly  to  the  Glen,  or  "  St.  Thomas' 
Glen,"  as  his  country-seat  was  called,  for  the  purpose  of  hav 
ing  him  fitted  for  college.  Some  years  previous  to  this,  my 
guardian  had  instituted  a  school  for  boys  upon  his  farm ;  and, 
as  he  resided  for  the  most  part  of  his  time  at  Washington, 
the  Glen  came  in  time  to  be  considered  more  of  a  school  than  a 
country-seat,  and  its  proprietor  had  long  ago  devoted  it  en 
tirely  to  that  purpose.  After  placing  Henry  at  the  school, 
7* 


78  BOSTON     COMMON. 

it  suddenly  came  into  his  head  that  it  would  be  a  nice  place 
for  me  to  study  in,  until  he  was  ready  to  carry  me  to  Boston ; 
and  he  accordingly  made  known  this  proposition  to  my  pa 
rents.  They  gladly  consented  to  my  going  to  the  Glen  for  the 
winter,  as  it  would  give  them  the  opportunity  of  seeing  me 
whenever  they  chose,  and  preparations  were  accordingly 
made  for  my  departure. 

I  remember  well  the  evening  before  I  left  my  dear  home 
for  the  first  time,  to  go  among  strangers.  My  mother  was 
busied  in  packing  my  trunk,  and  in  seeing  that  everything 
was  in  it  that  could  add  to  my  comfort  when  away  from 
home.  I  was  talking  with  my  father  and  caressing  little  Con 
stance,  who  could  but  just  lisp  my  name,  and  pat  my  cheek 
with  her  little  dimpled  fingers. 

Suddenly  the  door-bell  rang,  and  a  visitor  entered,  who,  to 
my  great  delight,  proved  to  be  Roland  Hastings.  This  young 
man  certainly  possessed  great  influence  over  every  person 
with  whom  he  came  in  contact;  for  my  parents,  although  un 
willing  to  leave  me  alone  with  any  other  man,  seemed,  on  this 
occasion,  to  yield  to  a  certain  sort  of  fascination  which  he 
possessed,  and,  after  a  few  moments'  conversation,  left  the 
room,  taking  my  little  sister  with  them. 

How  very  happy  was  I  to  be  left  alone  with  my  new  ac 
quaintance  ;  and  how  my  heart  fluttered  with  pleasure  as  he 
approached  my  chair,  and  leaned  over  it  with  the  familiarity 
of  an  old  friend ! 

I  ventured  to  look  up.  —  He  was  gazing  at  me  with  his 
dark  eyes  as  though  he  would  read  my  very  soul ;  and  truly 
he  might  do  so  with  ease,  for  I  had  neither  the  means  or  in 
clination  to  conceal  this  first  great  feeling  of  my  heart.  He 


BOSTON      COMMON.  79 

took  my  hand  ;  —  ah !  how  the  fingers  trembled  and  thrilled 
at  the  touch  !  I  can  feel  it  even  yet. 

"  You  are  then  really  .going  to  leave  us,  Miss  Clifton,"  said 
he,  in  a  soft,  persuasive  tone.  "  Plow  much  we  shall  miss  you 
I  do  not  dare  to  say ;  but  I  trust  you  will  favor  us  now  and 
then  with  your  presence,  without  which  our  circle  will  indeed 
be  deprived  of  its  sunshine." 

How  happy  did  those  few  words  of  mere  courtesy  make 
me!  My  heart  mistook  them  for  the  accents  of  love;  and  per 
haps  they  were  so,  for  Hastings  never  looked  half  so  much 
in  earnest  as  at  that  moment;  his  beautiful  hair  floating 
dreamily  over  the  high,  broad  brow,  and  the  dark  eyes, 
always  so  expressive,  now  beaming  with  the  emotions  of  a 
heart,  as  it  then  seemed,  overflowing  with  love.  I  was  too 
happy  to  reply ;  I  only  blushed,  and  played  nervously  with 
the  tassel  of  the  chair. 

At  length  we  heard  some  one  coming.  Roland  hastily  bent 
over  me,  and,  parting  the  hair  from  my  forehead,  pressed  his 
first  kiss  upon  my  brow,  and,  with  a  "  God  bless  you,  my  dear 
little  Nellie  !  "  retired  at  the  opposite  door,  just  as  my  mother 
entered.  I  waited  not,  but  sought  my  room  hastily,  my  heart 
beating,  and  my  whole  frame  quivering  with  delight. 

"  He  loves  me,  he  loves  me,"  I  said  ;  "  he  called  me  his 
dear  little  Nellie,  and,  0,  he  kissed  me  !  "  That  first  kiss  — 
can  I  ever  forget  it?  No  ;  it  comes  to  me  even  now,  although 
many  years  have  flown  since  it  was  pressed  upon  my  brow, 
and  brings  in  its  train  all  the  long,  delicious  poetry  of  the 
past.  And  he  had  probably  bestowed  it  out  of  pity  to  my 
love  for  him,  and  had  perhaps  forgotten  it  the  next  moment ! 

I  did  not  close  my  eyes  till  long  after  midnight.   I  was  too 


80  BOSTON      COMMON. 

happy  to  think  of  so  dull  a  thing  as  sleep,  and  so  I  lay  upon 
my  little  bed,  weaving  a  long,  bright  web  of  future  happiness, 
where  Roland's  face  and  form  were  of  course  conspicuous. 
"And  I  shall  be  rich,"  thought  I,  "and  he  is  poor.  How 
very  happy  shall  I  be  to  give  it  all  to  him  !  and  he  is  so  noble 
and  good  that  it  will  be  sure  to  increase  under  his  care,  and 
he  will  not  have  to  be  confined  to  the  dull  routine  of  business, 
day  after  day,  and  we  will  ride  together,  travel  in  distant 
countries  together,  and  do  so  much  good  with  our  money,  dear 
Roland  and  I ! "  and,  repeating  the  loved  name,  I  fell  asleep 
about  two  hours  before  day. 

Ah,  Roland !  could  I  then  but  have  foreseen  what  would 
occur  in  that  future  which  I  painted  so  brightly  with  Love's 
own  brush,  methinks  my  heart  would  have  drooped  and  with 
ered  in  my  bosom,  ere  I  should  have  yielded  it,  with  all  its 
rich  treasures  of  love,  to  one  like  thee. 


CHAPTER    XI. 

"  Delicious  deaths,  soft  exhalations 

Of  soul  ;  dear  and  divine  annihilations, 
A  thousand  unknown  rites, 
Of  joys,  and  rarefied  delights." 

LONGFELLOW. 

THE  morning  dawned  bright  and  pleasant,  and  after  break 
fast  my  guardian,  the  Hon.  Thomas  Glenmore,  drove  up  to 
the  door  with  his  horse  and  sleigh,  to  take  me  to  the  Glen. 
It  was  the  last  of  December,  and  a  very  cold,  bitter  day ; 
but  I  heeded  it  not,  and  could  scarcely  stand  still  long  enough 
for  my  mother  to  place  about  me  all  the  wrappings  with  which 
her  kind  care  had  provided  me. 

"You  seem  very  happy  this  morning,  Helen,"  said  my 
father,  who  was  holding  the  horse  while  we  were  getting  ready 
to  start.  "  I  hope  you  are  not  so  very  glad  to  leave  us  ?  " 

"  No  indeed,  dear  father,"  I  replied  ;  "  but  it  is  the  first 
time  I  have  been  away,  save  for  the  purpose  of  visiting,  and 
I  am  quite  impatient  to  begin  my  new  duties.  I  shall  be 
back  again  on  Saturday,  you  know." 

I  kissed  them  all,  and  hugged  little  Constance  very  hard, — 
for  I  felt  strong  this  morning,  —  and  the  next  moment  the 
horse  had  started,  and  we  were  fairly  on  our  way. 


82  BOSTON     COMMON. 

When  girls  leave  home  the  first  time  for  school,  the  begin 
ning  of  their  journey  is  generally  spent  in  weeping,  and  regret 
ting  the  dear  ones  left  behind.  Then,  as  their  emotion  sub 
sides,  thoughts  of  the  new  home  they  are  going  to  will  creep 
in,  and  the  remainder  of  the  journey  will  generally  be  spent 
in  conjecturing  what  sort  of  associates  they  are  about  to 
encounter,  —  whether  they  will  find  friends  among  them  or 
no,  and  whether  their  duties  will  be  heavy  or  light.  It  was 
not  so  in  my  case.  My  whole  thoughts  were  bent  upon 
Roland.  I  wondered  when  I  should  be  so  happy  as  to  see 
him  again,  and  whether  or  not  he  would  tell  me  how  much  he 
loved  me,  at  our  next  meeting. 

My  guardian  noticed  my  silence,  and,  attributing  it  to  sor 
row  at  leaving  home,  strove,  in  the  kindness  of  his  heart,  to 
cheer  me.  He  little  guessed  the  deep  fountain  of  happiness 
which  I  already  had  within  my  breast.  He  talked  with  me 
about  the  old  place  I  was  going  to,  and  gave  me  a  description 
of  the  characters  whom  I  should  meet  there.  I  was  so  very 
happy  that  I  knew  I  should  love  them  all,  and  longed  to  show 
them  how  kind  and  obliging  I  could  be. 

At  length  our  horse  began  to  ascend  a  long,  steep  hill,  and, 
after  making  a  bend  in  the  road,  the  "  Glen  "  came  suddenly 
in  sight.  It  was  a  fine,  large  place,  consisting  of  the  main 
building,  anfl  a  half-dozen  smaller  ones,  which  served  as  store 
houses,  barns,  etc.  There  was  a  large  garden  near  the  house, 
and  as  we  approached  I  noticed  about  a  dozen  boys,  from  the 
ages  of  ten  to  seventeen,  playing  in  it.  My  guardian  sud 
denly  stopped  his  horse  near  the  door,  and  called  loudly  to 
one  of  the  boys  to  come  and  hold  him  while  we  alighted. 

At  his  voice  the  whole  troop  came  rushing  up,  en  masse, 


BOSTON     COMMON.  83 

and  he  who  was  so  fortunate  as  to  be  foremost  fastened  the 
horse's  bridle  to  a  post,  while  we  stepped  from  the  sleigh.  My 
guardian  greeted  them  kindly,  and,  saying,  "  Well,  boys,  I 
have  brought  a  young  lady  to  study  with  you,"  entered  the 
house,  bidding  me  follow.  He  led  me  directly  into  a  large 
room,  and  placed  a  chair  for  me  near  a  nice  fire,  for  I  was 
extremely  cold.  An  old  lady,  the  mother  of  the  gentleman 
who  taught  the  school,  now  entered  the  room ;  and  my  guard 
ian,  taking  my  hand,  presented  me  to  her,  and  commended 
me  to  her  care. 

What  a  dear  old  lady  was  that !  How  nice  and  prim  did 
the  clear  muslin  cap  sit  upon  her  brow,  and  what  a  dignified 
air  did  that  neat  black  dress  give  to  her  person  !  Ah  !  dear 
"  aunt  Mary,"  I  shall  never  see  thy  like  again.  The  earth 
has  long  since  shut  that  serene  face  and  noble  form  from  my 
view,  but  the  remembrance  of  the  many  lessons  and  kindnesses 
I  received  while  under  thy  jurisdiction  will  never  be  effaced 
from  my  mind. 

She  received  me  with  a  smile,  kissed  my  check,  and  bade 
me  welcome  a  thousand  times  to  the  Glen.  At  this  moment 
I  heard  a  door  open  in  the  further  part  of  the  room,  and,  look 
ing  up,  I  saw  a  young  lady  about  my  own  age,  but  much  larger, 
crossing  the  room  quickly.  Mrs.  Marsden  called  to  her,  and 
at  the  call  she  came  slowly  forward,  with  a  sadly-solemn  air, 
which  her  rosy  cheeks  and  laughing  blue  eyes  seemed  to 
declare  was  all  a  pretence. 

"  My  dear  Letitia,"  said  the  old  lady,  "  let  me  present  to 
you  your  new  future  companion,  Miss  Helen  Clifton,  a  ward 
of  the  Hon.  Thomas  Glenmore's.  She  has  come  to  live  a 


84  BOSTON      COMMON. 

while  with  us  here,  and  you  must  use  your  best  endeavors  to 
make  her  happy  and  contented." 

The  young  lady  smiled,  then,  suddenly  recollecting  herself, 
cast  her  eyes  up  to  the  ceiling,  and  sighed. 

The  next  moment  she  had  condescended  to  fix  them  upon 
poor  little  me,  and,  muttering  .something  about  the  "  happiness 
it  would  give  her,"  etc.,  walked  to  the  window  with  much 
dignity,  and  began  to  contemplate  the  clouds. 

Presently  my  guardian  and  Mrs.  Marsden  left  the  room 
together,  and  I  was  left  alone  with  my  new  companion.  I 
sat,  unmindful  of  her  presence,  gazing  directly  into  the  fire, 
endeavoring,  I  suppose,  to  discover  the  face  of  Roland  among 
the  bright  coals.  I  was  lost  in  my  own  thoughts,  when  I 
heard  a  deep  sigh  near  me.  I  looked  up.  My  new  acquaint 
ance  stood  with  her  arms  folded,  gazing  at  me,  and  almost 
ready  to  cry,  as  I  supposed.  I  looked  at  her  inquiringly ; 
she  advanced  just  three  quarters  of  an  inch  towards  me,  and 
said,  with  solemnity  enough  in  her  words  for  the  prayer  at  a 
funeral,  "  Miss  Clifton,  listen  to  me ! "  I  gazed  at  her  in 
wonder.  "  Miss  Clifton,"  she  continued,  "  arise  and  follow 
me."  She  pointed  mysteriously  towards  a  little  door  that 
had  hitherto  escaped  my  notice,  and  marched  boldly  through 
it.  I  saw  her  hand  beckoning  me,  and,  more  from  curiosity 
than  any  other  motive,  determined  to  ascertain  what  she 
wanted.  She  never  spoke  until  she  had  reached  a  little  roo'm, 
at  the  top  of  a  staircase,  into  which  she  ushered  me,  with  the 
air  of  a  princess,  and  placed  a  chair  for  me  to  sit  upon. 

"  Miss  Helen  Clifton,"  she  began  in  the  next  moment, 
"  '  behold  the  place  where  you  must  lie '  while  under  this 
roof."  She  pointed  towards  the  bed.  "  I  shall  be  with  you," 


BOSTON      COMMON.  85 

she  continued,  "  so  do  not  fear.  This  table  is  yours,  and 
this  smaller  one  mine.  This  closet  we  will  share  together ; 
it  is  probably  large  enough  for  all  our  dresses,  for  I  have  but 
two.  This  writing-desk  is  at  your  service,  as  are  the  books ; 
indeed,  I  feel  that  we  shall  be  the  closest  of  friends,  and  I 
long  to  share  everything  with  you." 

I  attempted  to  thank  her,  but  she  went  on. 

"  0,  how  have  I  longed  for  this  hour  to  arrive  !  I  have 
thought  of  you  every  moment  since  I  heard  your  sweet  name 
mentioned.  I  have  dreamed  of  you  at  night,  when  all  was 
hushed  and  quiet,  and  nothing  could  be  heard  save  the  faint 
croaking  of  the  frogs,  or  the  lulling  music  of  the  little  brooks, 
as  they  glided  softly  by.  (It  was  the  beginning  of  winter,  dear 
reader.)  Then  has  your  face  come  to  me  in  all  its  loveliness, 
and  I  have  half  fancied  I  saw  an  angel  in  my  dreams.  I 
knew,  when  I  first  heard  of  your  coming  to  the  Glen,  that  I 
should  dearly  love  you,  —  that  we  should  be  kindred  spirits ; 
and  if  you  but  knew  how  I  have  longed  for  a  companion  of 
that  sort,  —  one  to  whom  I  could  unbosom  all  my  thoughts, 
and  into  whose  friendly  ear  I  could  pour  all  the  griefs  that 
oppress  my  heart,  —  you  would  not  wonder.  You  smile,  but, 
sweet  Helen  (allow  me  thus  to  designate  you),  young  as  I  am, 
I  have  had  trouble,  and  of  the  severest  kind,  too.  Trouble 
that  has  caused  the  roses  to  pale  upon  my  cheek,  and  the 
lustre  to  fade  from  my  eyes.  But  you  shall  know  all  about 
it,  by  and  by.  I  long  to  tell  you  all. 

"  I  know  that  I  shall  love  you  dearly  —  I  do  already.  I 
admire  your  little  graceful  figure,  enveloped  in  that  neat 
black  dress.  I  admire  your  hair,  of  golden  brown,  just  such 
as  a  poet  would  fancy  he  saw  in  his  dreams ;  and  then  your 


86  BOSTON     COMMON. 

eyes,  —  large,  clear,  and  intellectually  gray, — how  I  dote  upon 
gray  eyes!  Mine,  alas!  are  blue,  blue  as  the  heavens,  and 
I  cannot  change  them  if  I  would ;  and  then  your  mouth,  set 
together  so  firmly.  0,  yes !  I  both  .admire  and  love  you. 
We  will  read,  study,  draw,  sew,  and  talk,  together,  and  have 
such  dear  good  times  !  " 

She  then  went  to  the  head  of  the  stairs,  and  called  to  a 
servant  to  bring  up  Miss  Clifton's  trunk.  "  Old  Ruthy,1'  as 
they  called  her,  soon  entered  with  the  trunk,  and,  placing  it 
in  a  corner,  and  saying  "  God  bless  the  pretty  new  lady," 
vanished. 

"  Now,  my  dear,"  said  Letitia,  "  I  have  some  letters  to 
write,  and  you  may  as  well  arrange  your  wardrobe ;  for  to 
morrow  the  holidays  are  over,  and  we  shall  have  to  com 
mence  study." 

She  seated  herself  at  the  little  desk,  while  I  prepared  to 
unpack  ray  trunk.  I  took  my  dresses,  one  by  one,  and  laid 
them  upon  the  bed,  before  hanging  them  up  in  the  closet,  and 
covered  my  table  with  books.  These  last  were  too  much  for 
Miss  Letitia.  She  arose  from  the  desk,  and,  clasping  her 
hands  together  in  ecstasy,  exclaimed, 

"  O,  what  a  variety  of  beautiful  books  you  have !  What 
delightful  hours  we  will  spend  reading  them  together,  —  that 
is,  if  my  sweet  friend  will  be  so  very  kind  as  to  let  me  share 
them  with  her." 

I  assured  her  that  every  book  I  had  was  entirely  at  her 
service,  and  anything  else  she  chose,  that  I  possessed. 
She  thanked  me  benignly,  and  turned  to  her  writing  once 
more. 

"  How  selfish  I  am,"  she  at  length  exclaimed,  "  to  sit  here 


BOSTON     COMMON.  87 

and  see  you  at  work  so  hard !  Let  me  see ;  what  can  I  do  ? 
0,  I  will  hang  up  these  dresses." 

She  took  them  carefully,  one  by  one,  and  put  them  in  their 
places;  and  presently  we  had  all  neatly  arranged  in  our  little 
domicile,  and  I  began  to  feel  very  much  at  home. 

Our  one  window  commanded  a  fine  view  of  the  country 
around,  and  of  the  boys'  play-ground,  I  looked  from  it,  and 
as  my  eyes  ran  far  over  the  distant  hills,  I  thought,  "  Behind 
those  hills  are  my  father,  mother,  brothers,  and  little  sister ; 
and  Roland,  too,  is  there.  I  wonder  what  he  is  doing,  and 
if  he  is  thinking  of  me."  Letitia  approached  me  softly. 

"  You  are  sad,  Helen,"  said  she,  "  or  you  are  homesick, 
perhaps.  Are  you  thinking  of  the  dear  ones  left  to  mourn 
your  absence  at  home?  or  is  there  still  a  nearer,  and  a 
dearer,  to  whom  you  have  yielded  up  the  tribute  of  your 
young  heart,  and  is  it  of  him  you  are  thinking  ?  " 

I  blushed,  and  half  turned  away. 

"  Ah !  "  she  continued,  "  I  have  truly  divined  the  cause 
of  your  sadness.  If  you  love,  my  sweet  Helen,  beware! 
Give  not  your  heart,  teeming  with  all  its  rich  affections,  to  a 
man.  He  will  surely  deride  you  for  your  love,  trample  upon 
your  affections,  and  fling  back  your  heart,  all  torn  and  bleed 
ing,  to  you."  I  shuddered  involuntarily.  "  Look  at  me," 
she  continued ;  "  am  I  not  a  living  proof  of  what  I  say  ?  " 

I  gazed,  half  wondering,  into  her  face.  It  was  a  fair, 
good-natured  countenance,  with  large,  sweet  blue  eyes,  and  an 
open  brow,  shaded  by  long  chestnut  curls. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Milford,"  said  I,  "  you  look  as  though  you 
were  perfectly  happy.  Your  eyes  are  bright,  your  cheeks  the 
color  of  the  rose,  and  you  are  not  pale  and  emaciated,  like 


88  BOSTON     COMMON. 

one  who  has  seen  deep  grief.  Pray  tell  me,  why  do  you  im 
agine  yourself  such  a  devotee  ?  " 

"Child,  child!"  she  replied,  putting  her  hand  upon  her 
heart,  "  here,  here  is  my  grief,  and  it  lies  too  deep  for  mortal 
eyes  to  ken  !  " 

At  this  moment  the  dinner-bell  rang,  and  my  companion, 
taking  my  arm,  led  me  to  the  dining-room,  in  a  very  formal 
manner.  Around  a  large  table,  well  covered  with  plain 
though  substantial  food,  were  seated  the  boys  of  the  school. 
They  were  about  twenty  in  number,  I  should  think.  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Marsden  sat  at  the  head  and  foot  of  the  table,  and 
aunt  Mary  near  her  son.  Miss  Milford  led  me,  blushing 
like  a  peony,  to  the  further  end  of  the  table,  and  seated 
me  near  a  gentleman,  whom  she  introduced  to  me  as  Mr. 
Moore. 

"  This  is  my  teacher  in  French,  Helen,"  whispered  she, 
"  and  will  be  yours  also,  I  presume." 

The  gentleman  made  room  for  me  at  his  side,  and  helped 
me  to  everything  there  was  upon  the  table,  at  once.  He 
seemed  to  be  a  little,  nervous  man,  who  liked  to  be  always  in 
motion.  He  would  move  the  different  articles  around  the 
table  with  the  greatest  rapidity,  and  shift  his  chair  in  every 
direction,  for  fear  that  he  might  be  treading  upon  your  toes, 
or  dress,  or  too  near  for  your  comfort ;  and  so  fearful  was  he 
of  interfering  with  you  in  some  way,  that  he  would  be  sure 
to  deprive  you  of  all  pleasure  which  you  might  otherwise 
enjoy  in  his  society,  by  his  quick,  nervous  motions.  And  yet 
he  was  a  very  kind  man,  and  showed  me  many  favors  while 
I  was  at  the  Glen.  He  was  about  the  middle  height,  and 
rather  symmetrically  made.  His  large,  .broad  brow  was 


BOSTON     COMMON.  89 

marked  with  deep  lines  of  care  and  thought.  His  light-blue 
eyes  had  a  wild,  restless  look  in  them,  and  seemed  to  be  in 
every  direction  at  the  same  time ;  but  he  was  finely  and 
thoroughly  educated,  and  deeply  imbued  with  piety.  He  was 
also  of  rather  a  cheerful  disposition,  and  liked  a  pleasant  chat 
with  a  young  lady,  now  and  then ;  but,  as  he  always  had  a 
fund  of  wit  and  sarcasm  ready,  which  he  levelled  about  him 
unsparingly,  he  could  seldom  induce  one  to  listen  long  to  his 
repartees,  for  fear  of  getting  a  shot  themselves  from  his  cut 
ting  tongue. 

At  the  foot  of  the  table,  near  Mr.  Marsden,  sat  a  youth  of 
some  eighteen  years,  who  at  once  attracted  my  attention. 
His  exceeding  beauty  of  face  and  form,  and  a  certain  air  of 
deep  melancholy  there  was  about  him,  interested  me  exceed 
ingly.  I  thought  of  Werter  and  his  sorrows,  Keats,  Thad- 
deus  of  Warsaw,  and  a  dozen  others  of  that  stamp ;  but,  after 
stealing  a  glance  at  him  every  opportunity  I  could  get,  I  de 
cided  that  he  was  a  perfect  Kirke  White. 

I  was  very  much  surprised  and  delighted  afterwards  to 
learn  that  he  was  my  own  dear  cousin,  Harry  Glenmore, 
whom  I  had  not  seen  for  many  years,  and  who  had  thereby 
escaped  my  memory  altogether.  He  was  one  of  those  frail, 
beautiful,  highly-gifted  beings,  who  seem  sent  for  a  short  time 
upon  earth,  but  to  wind  themselves  closely  about  our  hearts, 
and  to  gild  everything  earthly  they  touch  with  a  hue  of  their 
own  bright  spirit. 

Such  was  the  being  who  now  attracted  my  attention.  He 
sat  a  little  apart  from  the  others,  and  seemed  to  be  in  a  deep 
revery  most  of  the  time,  for  he  took  no  notice  of  my  en 
trance,  or  of  the  conversation  that  followed.  I  longed  to  see 
8* 


90  BOSTON     COMMON. 

his  eyes;  and  after  a  while  he  raised  them.  What  glorious 
ones  they  were  !  Large,  soft,  and  dreamy,  —  why,  you  could 
almost  fancy  you  saw  one  of  God's  own  beautiful  angels 
gazing  at  you  from  their  liquid  depths.  He  was  of  a  thought 
ful  mood,  rather  inclined  to  melancholy,  seldom  smiled,  and 
never  joined  in  the  sports  of  the  other  boys  at  the  school. 
Dear  Harry !  He  seemed  to  me  only  a  stray  spirit,  wander 
ing  from  his  blest  abode  for  a  short  time,  in  search  of  the 
scattered  gems  of  goodness  and  virtue  that  might  yet  linger 
upon  this  dull  earth. 

Our  dinner  was  at  length  concluded,  and  the  boys  betook 
themselves  once  more  to  their  play-ground,  determined  to 
make  the  most  of  this,  their  last  half-holiday.  I  was  invited 
into  the  young  Mrs.  Marsden's  room,  and  introduced  to  her 
husband  and  baby,  "  little  Tommy,"  who  was  named  after  my 
uncle,  Thomas  Glenmore.  The  old  gentleman  sat  asleep  in 
an  easy-chair,  at  which  Miss  Letitia  seemed  horrified,  and 
drew  me  away  to  lament  the  stupidity  of  the  family. 

"How  can  people  indulge  in  that  stupid  thing  called 
sleep,"  said  she,  "  when  so  many  cares  and  duties  press  upon 
them,  and  time  is  so  short  —  far  too  short  to  be  wasted  in  this 
manner ! " 

"  But,  my  dear  Letty,"  replied  I,  "  uncle  Thomas  is  get 
ting  old,  and  has  long  been  accustomed  to  indulge  in  a  nap 
after  dinner.  Nearly  all  old  people  do  that." 

My  companion  suddenly  grasped  the  window-sill,  and  such 
an  expression  of  woe  came  over  her  countenance,  that  I  began 
to  be  alarmed,  for  I  feared  that  she  was  about  to  faint. 

"  Letty,  Letty  dear,"  exclaimed  I,  "  you  are  ill,  are  you 
not  ?  Shall  I  ring  for  assistance  ?  " 


BOSTON     COMMON.  91 

"  There  it  is  again,  and  twice !  "  said  she.  "  0,  Helen !  what 
have  you  called  me?  That  dreadfully  vulgar  cognomen  !  " 

"  Why,  is  n't  that  your  name  ?  "  I  inquired,  very  much 
surprised  at  her  emotion. 

"  Hush !  "  said  she.  "  Some  old  maiden  aunt  did  call  me 
that,  to  be  sure ;  but  I  have  long  since  changed  it." 

"And  pray,  may  I  ask,  what  name  do  you  now  rejoice  in?  " 

"  Letise"  she  replied.  "  It  is  the  French  for  Letitia,  and 
very  pretty,  —  do  you  not  think  so  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes,  I  suppose  it  is  pretty  enough,  —  but  how  you 
frightened  me !  I  really  thought  you  were  going  to  faint,  or 
die." 

"  0,  that  is  my  nerves,"  she  replied,  with  her  eyes  cast 
down,  and  one  hand  pressed  upon  her  heart,  as  if  she  were 
laboring  under  some  great  pain  ;  "  it  is  my  nerves,  —  they  are 
very  delicate,  very  bad,  since  my  trouble,  —  it  has  sadly  in 
jured  my  constitution.  0,  Helen !  "  she  suddenly  exclaimed, 
"  may  you  never  know  what  it  is  to  mourn  the  loss  of  a  lover, 
or  feel  that  the  whole  treasure  of  your  affections  has  been 
lavished  where  it  has  been  scorned  !  " 

She  drew  me  to  the  window,  and,  while  the  tears  were 
streaming  from  her  really  fine  eyes,  pointed  to  the  distant  blue 
sky.  —  "  Helen,"  she  continued,  solemnly,  "  dost  see  yonder 
sky,  how  calmly  it  smiles  upon  me,  as  though  my  heart  were 
not  breaking?" 

"  I  do  indeed,"  said  I,  half  trembling  with  emotion. 

"  Well,  Helen,  I  feel  that  this  is  not  my  home.  I  know 
that  yonder  sky  is  waiting  to  receive  its  sinful  though  repent 
ant  child  to  its  bosom.  Helen,"  and  her  voice  became 
almost  inaudible,  "  I  sometimes  think  that  before  the  eartk 


92  BOSTON      COMMON. 

has  again  put  forth  its  green,  and  before  the  seasons  have 
gone  their  round,  I  shall  be  sleeping  beneath  the  clods 
of  the  valley.  Yes,  I  can  almost  see  the  daisies  growing  over 
my  grave.  But  I  shall  die  with  the  blessed  consciousness 
that  there  is  one  here  who  will  mourn  for  me  sincerely,  who 
will  grieve  deeply  for  the  broken-hearted,  —  for  her  who  fell 
like  the  untimely  flower  before  the  frosts  of  autumn.  Yes, 
my  sweet  Helen,  in  your  friendship  and  love  I  already  feel  a 
peace  which  the  world  cannot  take  away." 

She  cast  her  eyes  to  the  ceiling,  and  seemed,  from  the  rapt 
attention  with  which  she  regarded  it,  and  from  the  manner  in 
which  her  lips  moved,  to  be  holding  communion  with  some  in 
visible  being  there.  I  looked  in  wonder  at  the  spot,  but 
could  see  nothing,  save  a  huge,  many-legged  spider,  that  had 
got  a  poor  little  simple  fly  in  his  power,  and  was  torturing 
it  to  death.  I  thought,  as  I  again  glanced  at  my  companion, 
"  What  a  splendid  actress  she  would  make  !  —  but  I  do  not 
like  her;  she  pains  me.  How  different  she  is  from  Katherine 
Merton,  with  her  strong  good  sense,  and  well-balanced  mind ! 
But,  poor  thing,  if  she  has  suffered  from  unrequited  love,  I  do 
not  wonder  at  her  dejection." 

At  this  instant  some  one  called  "  Letty !  Letty  ! "  from  the 
sitting-room.  My  companion  started;  I  sprang  forward  to 
render  my  assistance,  but  she  gently  waved  me  off". 

"  No,  dearest,"  said  she,  "  it  is  of  no  consequence.  While 
here,  a  denizen  of  earth,  and  mingling  with  common  people, 
who  cannot  understand  my  finer  spirit,  as  you  do,  my  Helen, 
I  must,  as  a  natural  consequence,  be  subjected  to  many  such 
things,  —  but  I  will  try  and  bear  it  all  cheerfully,  if  you,  the 
chosen  friend  of  my  bosom,  will,  in  our  private  and  con- 


BOSTON     COMMON.  93 

fidential  moments,  call  me  by  the  sweet,  the  endearing  epithet 
of  Letise.  —  Say,  my  own  Helen,  will  you  do  this  for  your 
poor  friend  ?  " 

"  I  certainly  will,"  answered^I,  "  for  I  like  it  very  much." 

"  Letty,  Letty  Milford  !  "  came  again  from  the  adjoining 
room.  She  cast  her  eyes  to  the  chimney  of  an  opposite 
building,  as  if  imploring  its  pity  and  protection,  and,  placing 
her  hand  upon  her  heart,  rushed  from  the  room,  as  I  thought, 
in  strong  hysterics.  I  gained  my  breath,  however,  as  I  heard 
her,  the  next  moment,  talking  to  the  baby,  in  a  sweet,  natural 
voice. 

I  stood  gazing  from  the  window  after  her  departure,  long 
ing  for  one  glimpse  of  the  dear  home  I  had  left,  when  I  sud 
denly  felt  a  light  touch  upon  my  shoulder.  Looking  up,  I 
encountered  the  mild  eyes  of  my  guardian. 

"Fie,  Nellie,  in  tears  already?  "  said  he.  "  I  am  ashamed 
of  you.  Come  with  me ;  I  wish  to  show  you  a  nice  room, 
that  I  am  going  to  devote  to  your  little  ladyship's  service, 
while  you  are  a  resident  at  the  Glen." 

I  followed  him  to  a  large  parlor,  filled  with  old-fashioned 
furniture,  and  whose  walls  were  adorned  with  fine  paintings 
from  some  of  the  old  masters.  We  stopped  not  to  gaze, 
however,  but  proceeded  at  once  to  a  small  room  beyond  the 
parlor.  Three  sides  of  the  room  consisted  of  shelves  filled 
with  books  of  all  sizes  and  bindings.  The  other  side  of  the 
room  was  occupied  by  a  large  window,  near  which  stood  a 
table,  covered  with  writing  materials,  a  globe,  and  several 
newspapers.  A  large  chair,  looking  as  if  ease  and  comfort 
had  fallen  asleep  among  its  soft  cushions,  completed  the  fur 
niture  of  the  apartment.  My  guardian  playfully  seated  me 


94 


BOSTON'      C  0  M  M  0  X  . 


in  the  chair,  and  told  me  that  these  books  were  all  mine  while 
I  remained  at  the  Glen,  —  that  I  could  read  and  enjoy  my 
self  with  them  as  much  as  I  pleased,  only  on  one  condition. 

"  What  is  that  condition,  uncle  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  There,  child,"  he  replied,  pointing  to  a  number  of  little 
light-colored  volumes,  —  "  on  that  shelf  are  a  series  of  works 
which  you  must  never  touch,  read,  or  even  think  about.  Can 
my  little  Helen  do  this  ?  " 

"  0,  yes,  uncle  Thomas,"  I  replied,  "  I  will  never  touch 
them  —  I  will  not  even  look  at  them  if  I  can  help  it;  and 
surely  I  need  not  wish  for  those,  when  there  are  a  plenty  of 
other  books  here,  enough  to  last  me  a  very  long  time.  I 
ought  to  be  satisfied  with  them.  But  what  sort  of  books  are 
those,  and  who  is  their  author  ?  " 

"  They  are  the  works  of  Voltaire,  Hume,  Rousseau,  and  a 
host  of  others,"  he  replied,  "  and  the  reading  of  them  might 
lead  your  young  mind  into  all  sorts  of  errors;  therefore, 
please  to  remember,  they  are  forbidden.  Now,  my  dear, 
we  will  talk  of  something  else.  I  want  you  to  study,  and 
learn  a  great  deal,  this  winter;  for  in  the  spring  I  shall  take 
you  to  a  large  seminary  in  Boston,  and  I  expect  that  you 
will  be  duly  prepared  for  it  by  that  time.  You  must  write, 
too,  —  here  are  all  the  necessary  materials.  I  want  you  to 
write  often,  and  well.  You  must  try  and  acquire  a  fine,  cor 
rect  style  in  writing  —  that  is  everything." 

I  thanked  my  uncle  for  his  kindness,  and  at  this  moment 
we  heard  a  step  approaching.  The  door  opened,  and  the 
youth  whom  I  had  seen  at  the  dinner-table  entered. 

"Ah  !  Harry,"  said  my  uncle,  "  come  here,  and  let  me 
present  you  to  your  little  cousin  Helen,  your  ddar  uncle 
William's  daughter.  Helen,  this  is  my  son." 


BOSTON     COMMON.  95 

Harry  approached,  and,  taking  my  hand,  raised  it  tenderly 
to  his  lips.  "We  will  be  the  best  of  friends,  little  Helen, 
will  we  not?"  he  asked. 

I  was  quite  delighted  to  find  that  this  beautiful,  interest 
ing  youth  was  so  nearly  related  to  me,  and  already  began  to 
think  that  I  should  not  be  quite  so  lonely  at  the  Glen  as  I 
had  imagined.  Harry  had  come  for  a  book.  He  soon  found 
it,  and,  telling  me  he  would  be  with  me  again  in  the  evening, 
bowed,  and  withdrew. 

"  Now,  Helen,"  said  my  uncle,  "  I  want  you  and  Harry  to 
be  as  happy  as  possible  together.  You  will  find  him  a  kind 
and  cheerful  companion,  as  well  as  a  useful  one.  I  should 
much  rather  you  would  be  with  him  than  with  Let-it ia  Milford. 
She  is  a  wild,  extravagant,  romantic  thing,  and  her  doings  and 
sayings  might  have  a  bad  effect  upon  your  unformed  charac 
ter.  However,  I  trust  your  strong  good  sense  will  defend 
you,  and  make  you  see  at  once  how  very  ridiculous  such 
notions  and  ideas  are." 

He  then  kissed  me  affectionately,  and,  leading  me  back  to 
the  sitting-room,  soon  after  bade  Harry  and  myself  a  kind 
adieu,  and  departed. 

Supper-time  soon  came,  and  after  that  we  had  a  pleasant, 
merry  game  of  blind-man's-buff,  and  separated  for  the 
night. 

Thus  ended  my  first  day  at  this  place,  —  a  place  endeared 
to  me  by  many  pleasant  recollections,  and  hallowed  by  the 
memory  of  many  who  are  now  sleeping  in  the  tomb  ;  among 
whom  are  Mrs.  Marsden,  and  a  noble  youth  of  scarcely 
seventeen  yeargi. 

The  next  morning  we  were  up  betimes,  and,  after  meeting 


96  BOSTON    COMMON. 

around  the  pleasant  breakfast-table,  and  exchanging  the 
morning  salutations,  the  boys  betook  themselves  to  their  long- 
neglected  school-room,  and  Miss  Milford  and  myself  to  a  little 
corner  in  Mrs.  Marsden's  parlort  where  we  could  study  as 
much  as  we  pleased. 

A  portion  of  the  day  was  devoted  to  drawing,  and  our 
teacher  was  Professor  Marsden.  He  had  a  curious  way  of 
teaching,  however.  He  would  give  us  a  pattern,  say  a  word 
or  two  concerning  it,  and  bid  us  fall  to  work,  while  he  would 
fall  asleep  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  to  the  utmost  horror  of 
Miss  Letitia,  or  Letise,  as  she  persisted  in  making  me  call 
her.  She  would  cast  her  eyes  up  to  the  clouds  in  an  agony, 
almost,  and  silently  point  to  our  good  teacher,  who  set  us  so 
easy  an  example. 

"  0  Helen,  dear !  "  said  she,  one  day,  "  friend  of  my 
heart,  how  can  any  one  be  so  lost  to  themselves,  and  to  all 
the  finer  feelings  of  their  nature,  as  to  drag  out  their  exist 
ence  in  such  a  manner  ?  0,  when  I  look  upon  him,  and  the 
rest  of  his  race,  I  am  almost  tempted  to  give  up  trying  to 
accustom  myself  to  their  ways.  I  fear  that  I  can  never  find 
a  person  of  just  the  tender  susceptibility  that  suits  me.  I 
cannot  find  one  who  feels  with  me  upon  all  points  exactly, 
excepting  yourself,  dear  Helen  ;  and  you  are  too  young,  too 
inexperienced  yet,  to  be  all  that  I  ask.  Even  you,  my  cher 
ished  friend,  do  not  quite  come  up  to  my  ideas.  You  are  too 
commonplace  —  too  matter-of-fact." 

I  was  quite  distressed  at  her  words  ;  for  I  wished  her  to 
think  well  of  me.  "  I  commonplace?  "  said  I,  "  I  matter-of- 
fact,  dear  Letitia  ?  —  Letise,  I  mean.  0,  I  am  so  sorry 
that  you  think  so  !  " 


BOSTON    COMMON.  97 

"  No,  child,  that  is  not  exactly  my  meaning,"  said  she. 
"  You  never  get  excited  over  anything,  —  you  never  soar 
away  upon  the  wings  of  imagination,  —  as  I  do.  O,  if  you 
would  sometimes  go  with  me,  and  behold  those  untold  regions 
that  I  see  more  than  half  the  time,  what  a  mine  of  happiness 
it  would  be  to  you,  and  your  poor  friend  also !  for,  Helen,  I 
am  languishing,  dying,  for  a  kindred  spirit,  and  you  must  be 
that  one.  Yes,  with  a  little  careful  pruning  and  training, 
you  will  be  fitted  to  be  the  chosen  one  of  even  my  inner 
heart  j  and  what  delicious  moments  will  we  spend !  0,  I 
long  to  see  you  as  free  from  commonplace  affairs  —  from 
earthliness  —  as  myself !  "  A  prolonged  snore  from  Mr. 
Marsden  here  interrupted  the  fair  speaker,  who  looked  at  him 
with  the  utmost  contempt,  silently  wrung  her  hands,  and 
resumed  her  drawing. 

It  was  not  strange  that  this  singular  girl  began  to  make 
quite  an  impression  upon  my  young  and  unformed  mind.  I 
half  loved  her,  and  almost  envied  her  the  happy  use  she  had 
of  language,  and  the  graceful  attitudes  she  could  assume  at 
her  pleasure.  I  was  just  young  and  silly  enough  to  admire 
her  romantic  talk  ;  and,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  foolish  enough  to 
try  and  be  like  her  as  much  as  lay  in  my  power.  So  I 
curled  my  hair,  wore  my  simplest  frocks,  and  strove  to  aban 
don  myself  as  much  as  possible  to  grief,  in  order  to  meet 
with  her  approbation.  She  often  declared  herself  in  ecstasies 
with  my  improvement,  and  congratulated  herself  upon  having 
been  accessory  to  my  resuscitation  from  the  dull  land  of 
Reality  to  the  tinted,  fleeting  regions  of  Romance. 

"  Helen,"  said  she,  one  day,  to  me,  "  do  you  know  what  you 
lack  to  make  you,  in  my  estimation,  almost  perfect?" 
g 


98  BOSTONCOMMON. 

"No,  indeed,  Letise,"  I  answered, —  "what  is  it?" 

"  Why,  my  dear,"  she  replied,  "  you  were  never  in  love,  and 
deserted  by  the  false  one,  as  I  have  been,  or  you  would  be  so 
interesting  !  How  sweetly  a  sad,  pensive  look  would  sit  upon 
your  brow  !  How  delightful  it  would  be  if  you  could  only 
get  up  a  love-scene,  between  yourself  and  Harry  Glenmore, 
for  instance !  He  would  not  reciprocate,  of  course ;  for  he 
thinks  of  nothing  but  study ;  and  you  would  be  so  melancholy 
and  troubled  in  consequence,  and  then  I  could  have  the  ex 
treme  pleasure  of  sympathizing  with  you,  and  showing  my 
deep  friendship  for  you." 

"  Thank  you,  Letise,"  said  I ;  "  but  I  do  not  feel  particularly 
anxious  to  have  any  more  tfouble  than  I  already  possess, 
even  to  appear  in  your  eyes  more  interesting.  Besides,  I 
would  not,  for  worlds,  devote  my  dear,  noble  cousin  to  so 
base  a  purpose." 

How  little  did  I  think  then  of  her  foolish  words ;  but  how 
soon  did  I  have  occasion,  to  remember  them,  and  to  mourn 
over  real  trouble  and  anguish,  without  going  so  far  as  she 
desired  to  seek  it !  .:  j 

Letitia  had  long  since  told  me  of  her  unfortunate  attach 
ment  for  Mr.  Moore,  our  French  teacher  ;  —  how  she  had 
loved  him,  and  listened  for  his  coming  footsteps  with  trem 
bling  joy,  and  hung  upon  the  accents  of  his  tongue,  as  though 
her  very  soul  depended  upon  it;  and  how  be  had  rejected  her 
love,  and  turned  coldly  away  from  her  lacerated  heart,  &c. 
All  this  she  had  rehearsed  to  me,  with  many  tears  and  ges 
ticulations,  which  would  become  almost  frantic,  as  she  plunged 
into  the  most  pathetic  parts. 

How  I  pitied  and  wept  with  her  in  this  deep  affliction,  as 


BOSTON     COMMON.  99 

I  then  thought  it,  and  how  sweetly  she  thanked  me  for  my 
precious  sympathy,  and  how  patiently  she  resigned  herself  to 
all  the  miseries  of  a  broken  heart !  I  was  quite  happy,  of 
course,  that  I  could  be  of  any  service  to  so  interesting  a  per 
son  ;  and  so  I  redoubled  my  sighs  and  tears  on  her  account, 
and  took  great  delight  in  making  myself  as  miserable  as 
possible. 

I  thought  of  her  hopeless  love  with  a  shudder  ;  for  I  felt 
how  dreadful  it  would  be,  were  Roland — my  Roland  —  to 
turn  from  me  in  that  cruel,  heartless  manner.  It  would  kill 
me,  I  was  sure.  Between  Letitia's  grief  and  my  own  tears, 
I  did  really  manage  to  get  up  a  sad,  pensive  look,  which  she 
pronounced  perfectly  charming,  and  prophesied  for  me  entire 
success  in  the  new  accomplishments  I  had  undertaken  to  learn. 
What  the  good  people  of  the  house  thought  of  our  pensive 
looks  and  everlasting  sighs,  did  not  trouble  us  much ;  for,  so 
that  we  learned  our  morning  lessons  perfectly,  and  behaved 
with  propriety  at  the  table,  we  were  not  much  troubled  with 
reproofs  of  any  kind,  and  so  we  had  perfect  liberty  to 
weep,  sigh,  and  lament,  to  our  hearts'  content. 


CHAPTER    XII. 

"A  horse  !  a  horse  !  — 
My  kingdom  for  a  horse  !  " 

RICHARD  III. 

OUR  afternoons  were  spent,  as  I  said  before,  in  drawing 
and  talking  over  our  loves;  for  our  sleepy  teacher  dozed 
comfortably  in  his  chair,  and  left  us  mostly  to  ourselves. 
Twice  a  week  I  was  allowed  to  go  to  Linden  with  Mr.  Moore, 
in  his  sleigh,  for  the  purpose  of  attending  singing-school. 
After  this  was  over,  I  generally  contrived  to  see  my  mother 
and  the  children  for  a  few  moments.  Roland  did  not  attend 
the  school,  and,  on  that  account,  it  soon  lost  its  interest  for 
me,  and  I  begged  to  be  allowed  to  remain  at  home  and  talk 
to  the  stars  with  my  dear  Letise,  who  thanked  me,  with  an 
abundance  of  "fine  words,  for  the  exceeding  great  sacrifice  I 
had  made  upon  her  account,  as  she  persisted  in  calling  it. 

Before  I  leave  this  part  of  my  subject,  I  will  relate  a  little 
circumstance  that  occurred  through  my  thoughtlessness.  I 
learned,  one  evening,  at  the  school,  that  the  lady  with  whom 
Hastings  boarded  had  a  dancing-party.  The  same  person 
who  told  me  invited  me  to  go  with  him  a  few  moments,  and 
look  at  the  dancers.  How  my  heart  beat !  for  I  thought  I 


BOSTON     COMMON.  101 

should  again  see  Roland,  whom  I  had  not  seen  since  the 
evening  before  I  left  the  Glen.  I  accordingly  accompanied 
the  gentleman  to  Mrs.  Beresford's,  and  was  presented  to  that 
lady,  and  politely  welcomed  to  her  circle. 

I  was,  of  course,  invited  to  dance,  and  accepted.  While 
going  through  the  beautiful  evolutions  of  the  waltz,  I  sud 
denly  perceived  a  familiar  face  gazing  anxiously  at  me. 
How  the  blood  rushed  to  my  cheek  at  this  encounter,  and 
how  angry  I  felt  with  myself  for  displaying  so  much  emo 
tion  ! 

The  dance  concluded ;  my  partner  led  me  to  a  seat,  and  I 
was  left  a  while  to  "myself.  In  a  few  moments  I  ventured  to 
look  up  again.  Hastings  was  standing  in  the  same  place, 
with  folded  arms  and  knitted  brow,  gazing  at  me.  How 
beautiful,  nay,  princely,  he  looked  in  this  position  !  I  could 
almost  have  knelt  at  his  feet  in  adoration,  but  feared  to  move, 
lest  I  should  lose  sight  of  him  in  some  mysterious  way.  He 
evidently  read  my  thoughts,  and,  softening  a  little  in  his 
manner,  approached  my  chair. 

"  Have  I  the  extreme  pleasure  of  seeing  Miss  Clifton  once 
more  ?  "  he  asked,  in  a  gentle  tone. 

"  Have  you,  then,  missed  me  from  your  circle,"  I  replied, 
"  that  you  regard  my  advent  here  with  so  much  pleasure?  " 

"  Missed  you !  "  he  answered ;  "  can  any  one,  who  has  ever 
had  the  honor  of  knowing  Miss  Clifton,  forget  her  sweet 
face,  or  the  sunshine  which  her  presence  always  diffuses 
around  her  ?  " 

How  blest  did  those  few  words  make  me!  I  felt,  for 
a  moment,  as  though  I  was  lifted  from  earth  to  heaven. 
He  evidently  saw  and  understood  my  emotion ;  for  he  smiled 
9* 


102  BOSTON     COMMON. 

to  himself,  and  turned  away.  I  mistook  this  smile  for  love, 
and  gave  him  one  in  return.  He  then  asked  me  if  I  would 
do  him  the  extreme  honor  of  dancing  with  him.  I  was  only 
too  happy  to  comply  ;  and  after  the  dance  he  led  me  to  a  seat 
retired  from  the  others,  and  talked  for  a  long  while  with  me 
concerning  my  companions,  studies,  etc. 

At  length  I  suddenly  remembered  home,  and  arose  in  the 
greatest  haste  to  seek  for  Mr.  Moore,  whom  I  had  left  at  the 
singing-school. 

"  Why  do  you  leave  me  so  soon  ?  "  asked  Hastings. 

"  0,"  I  replied,  "  I  had  quite  forgotten  poor  little  Mr. 
Moore,  and  he  perhaps  thinks  I  am  lost,  and  will,  in  conse 
quence,  fidget  himself  to  death  on  account  of  it." 

Hastings  understood  my  reasons  immediately  for  leaving 
him,  and,  taking  my  arm,  we  proceeded  to  the  school-house 
together.  When  we  came  in  sight  of  the  building,  I  was 
quite  frightened  to  see  the  blinds  all  closed,  the  lights  out, 
and  poor  Mr.  Moore  looking  eagerly  for  me  in  every  direction. 
I  went  hastily  up  to  him,  and  touched  his  arm.  He  turned 
quickly  around,  very  much  as  a  kernel  of  corn  will  turn 
itself  in  the  pan  while  parching,  and  asked  me  the  important 
question  if  this  were  really  myself.  I  assured  him  of  my 
identity,  and  was  just  proceeding  to  get  into  the  sleigh,  when 
the  horse  —  out  of  all  manner  of  patience,  I  suppose,  at  my 
tardiness  —  started  for  home  without  UP.  Mr.  Moore  tried  to 
catch  the  reins,  but  the  horse  eluded  his  grasp,  and  set  off 
upon  a  brisk  trot,  followed  by  his  master. 

Roland  now  joined  in  the  pursuit,  while  I  stood  laughing 
very  heartily  to  see  the  horse,  with  his  head  high  in  the  air, 
and  poor  little  Mr.  Moore  striving  in  vain  to  catch  him,  while 


BOSTON     COMMON.  108 

"  Do  stop,  Jo  !  "  "  There 's  a  good  Jo,  stop  !  "  "  I  cannot  let 
you  go,  Joey !  "  burst  from  his  lips,  in  distressed  tones. 

Roland  soon  came  back  to  me,  and  was  just  saying  that  it 
would  be  impossible  to  catch  the  horse  that  night,  when  Mr. 
Moore  joined  us. 

"  Miss  Helen,"  said  he,  in  a  doleful  tone,  while  his  counte 
nance  wore  a  most  distressed  look,  "  you  will  have  to  go  up 
to  your  mother's  to-night,  and  I  will  send  for  you  early  in  the 
morning." 

"  But  what  can  you  do,  sir  ?  "  said  I.  "  Will  you  not  go 
with  me,  and  remain  there  also  ?  " 

"  0  no,"  he  replied ;  "  I  must  hurry  home  and  tell  Mr. 
Marsden  of  this  unforeseen  calamity,  and  we  will  try  and  find 
the  horse  together." 

I  felt  very  sorry  that  my  thoughtlessness  had  caused  the  good 
man  so  much  trouble,  and  told  him  so  ;  but  he  kindly  assured 
me  that  it  was  of  no  manner  of  consequence,  and  that  a  walk 
of  five  or  six  miles  in  the  open  air,  on  such  a  beautiful  night, 
would  do  him  no  harm.  He  then  committed  me  to  Roland's 
care,  and,  giving  me  strict  injunctions  to  come  back  to  school 
as  soon  as  sent  for,  turned,  and  commenced  his  long  walk. 

How  happy  was  I,  that  calm,  sweet  evening,  with  Roland 
by  my  side,  whispering  his  honeyed  words  in  my  ear,  while 
the  cold  moon  bathed  our  brows  with  its  soft,  pure  light,  and 
every  tree  hung  with,  frosted  jewels,  as  if  dressed  out  for  a 
magnificent  fete  ! 

We  soon  reached  home,  —  far  too  soon  for  me,  for  here 
I  must  part  with  Roland.  We  lingered  a  moment  upon  the 
door-step,  ere  our  adieus  were  exchanged,  looking  upon  the 
beautiful  scene  spread  before  us< 


104  BOSTON     COMMON. 

"  Poor  Mr.  Moore !  "  said  I,  at  length,  "  how  selfish  am  I  to 
enjoy  myself  so  very  much,  while  he  is  plodding  home  in  the 
cold,  on  foot, —  and  all  my  fault  too  !  " 

"  Pshaw,  Helen  !  "  replied  my  companion  ;  "  you  are  far 
too  sensitive.  Had  it  not  been  for  this  unlucky,  or  rather 
lucky  accident,  I  should  have  been  deprived  of  your  charm 
ing  society  to-night;  so  that  I  regard  it  as  a  very  fortunate 
circumstance.  It  will  not  hurt  him,  a  brisk  walk  in  this 
pure  air." 

Dearly  as  I  loved  Roland,  I  could  not  help  thinking  that 
he  was  at  fault  here,  and  that  his  heart  was  not  quite  the 
thing  which  I,  in  my  absorbing  love,  had  imagined  it  to  be. 
My  countenance  betrayed  as  much,  I  suppose,  for  the  next 
moment  he  took  my  hand,  with  a  winning  smile,  and  said, 
softly  : 

"  Forgive  me,  Helen,  if  my  selfishness  has  pained  you  ;  but 
the  pleasure  of  your  society  has  so  entranced  me,  that  I  can 
not  even  wish  poor  little  Moore  was  riding  safely  by  your 
side." 

ThesB  words,  mixed  as  they  were  with  the  honey  of  love, 
reassured  me,  and  I  extended  my  hand  to  him,  and  smiled. 
He  turned  and  pulled  the  bell. 

"  Farewell,  my  sweet  Helen  !  "  said  he  ;  "  we  shall  meet 
again,  ere  long,  I  trust." 

"  I  hope  so,  Roland,"  I  replied.    "  Good-night." 

He  turned  and  departed,  just  as  my  mother,  attracted  by 
our  voices  outside,  herself  answered  the  door-bell. 

"  Why,  my  dear  child,"  said  she,  "  how  came  you  here  at 
so  late  an  hour  ?  " 

I  followed  her  to  the  little  sitting-room,  and  told  her  the 


BOSTON     COMMON.  105 

circumstances  that  led  to  this  visit.  She  deplored  my  care 
lessness,  but  was  quite  glad  to  have  me  at  home  for  a  night 
with  her.  After  a  pleasant  chat  with  my  parents,  I  retired 
to  my  little  chamber.  Here,  as  on  a  previous  occasion,  my 
dreams  were  all  of  Roland,  and  my  waking  thoughts  were 
given  to  him  also. 

"  I  know  that  he  loves  me,"  thought  I ;  "it  is  very  evident 
that  such  is  the  case.  He  spoke  so  tenderly,  and  looked  so 
affectionately  in  my  face  with  his  large  blue  eyes.  0  yes,  it 
must  be  so,  —  my  heart  has  not  deceived  me  this  time." 

It  was  very  singular  that  during  my  long  acquaintance 
with  Roland  I  had  never  so  much  as  lisped  his  name  to  any 
human  being  save  Mary  Listen.  I  had  guarded  my  love  as 
a  miser  guards  his  gold,  —  had  placed  it  in  the  inner  templo 
of  my  heart,  and  closed  the  door,  so  that  no  intruder  could 
get  so  much  as  a  peep  at  the  precious  treasure.  Even  my 
mother  knew  nothing  of  my  feelings.  She  had  seen  Roland.a 
few  times,  had  noticed  that  he  called  upon  me  ;  but,  engrossed 
as  she  was  with  the  care  of  her  little  flock,  she  had  supposed 
him  but  a  mere  acquaintance,  and  had  scarcely  giveu  him  a 
passftig  thought. 

As  I  sat  by  the  window  the  next  day,  watching  for  Mr. 
Moore  to  carry  me  back  to  the  Grlen,  I  resolved  that  I  would 
tell  all  to  Letise  this  very  night.  "  Yes,"  said  I  to  myself, 
"  it  is  no  more  than  I  ought  to  do.  She  has  told  me  all  her 
history,  and  I  will  do  her  the  same  favor." 

I  had  another  motive  in  revealing  my  mighty  secret,  and 
to  Letise  above  all  others.  She  too  had  been  in  love,  and 
I  wished  to  relate  all  Roland's  words,  looks,  and  deportment 
towards  me,  and  then  hear  her  comments ;  in  short,  I  wished 


106  BOSTON     COMMON. 

to  ascertain  from  her,  by  my  account  of  him,  whether  there  was 
anything  for  me  to  hope  for;  and,  although  I  dreaded  her 
extravagant  language  and  gestures  upon  the  occasion,  yet  I 
determined  that  she  should  know  all. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

1  did  love  thee  well, 

And  gave  thee  all  I  had  to  give,  —  my  heart. 

MR.  Moore  did  not  come  for  me  until  nearly  night.  I  felt 
•}uite  anxious  concerning  him,  and  was  therefore  delighted  to 
jee  him  safe,  and  looking  so  well  and  happy. 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Moore,"  said  I,  when  I  met  him  at  the  door ; 
"  I  trust  you  did  not  experience  any  bad  effects  from  your 
long  walk  last  evening,  did  you  ?  " 

"  0  no,  miss,"  he  replied;  "on  the  contrary,  I  enjoyed  it 
exceedingly.  The  air  was  bracing,  and  the  exercise  did  me 
good." 

"  And  the  horse,"  I  inquired  ;  "  is  he  safe  ?  " 

"  Old  Joey,"  he  replied,  "  was  at  home  an  hour  before 
myself.  He  knew  his  way  as  well  as  I  could  show  him." 

Letise  was  delighted  to  see  me,  as  she  said,  after  so  very 
long  a  separation,  and  fervently  embraced  me.  I  scarcely 
waited  for  supper,  so  anxious  was  I  to  unfold  my  heart  to 
Letise.  I  hinted  to  her  that  I  had  something  of  the  greatest 
importance  to  reveal  to  her,  and  we  accordingly  hastened  to 
our  little  domicile,  and  seated  ourselves  at  th*e  window,  when 
I  commenced  as  follows  : 


108  BOSTON     COM  M  OX. 

"  Ah,  dear  Letise,  I  have  something  to  tell  you,  and  it  is 
of  vital  importance  to  me;  moreover,  I  have  never  breathed 
it  to  mortal  ear  before,  —  so  consider  yourself  highly  compli 
mented,  my  dear,  by  this  confidence." 

•Here  Letise  fell  into  a  violent  fit  of  weeping.  So  over 
come  was  she,  that  in  attempting  to  embrace  me  she  slipped 
from  her  chair,  and  fell  to  the  floor.  Here  she  lay,  sobbing 
so  pitifully  that  I  was  obliged  to  interfere. 

"In  Heaven's  name,  Letise,"  I  exclaimed,  "  what  is  the 
matter  with  you?  " 

"  0,  Helen,"  she  replied,  "  friend  of  my  heart,  beloved  of 
my  soul,  —  can  I  believe  my  ears  ?  Is  it  possible  that  — 
that  —  " 

"That  what?"  I  exclaimed,  impatiently.  "  What  do  you 
mean?" 

"  Why,  why,"  she  continued,  still  sobbing,  "  that  you 
should  have  lived  here  so  long,  and  have  communed  so  many 
hours  with  me,  and  yet  should  have  withheld  any  part  of 
your  confidence  from  me,  especially  a  secret  of  importance ! 
0,  Helen ! " 

"  Pshaw !  Letise,"  I  exclaimed,  "  have  done  with  this  non 
sense,  and  sit  up  and  listen  to  me. "  Come,  shake  off  your 
high-flown  rhapsodies,  and  be  your  own  true  self  for  a  short 
time.  I  have  something  to  tell  you ;  if  you  desire  to  hear  it, 
please  give  me  your  attention." 

My  earnestness  had  the  desired  effect.  Letise  arose  from 
her  recumbent  posture,  bathed  her  eyes  at  the  little  wash- 
stand,  and  seated  herself  opposite  me  with  quite  a  natural 
air.  Having  gafned  her  attention,  I  commenced  relating  my 
little  episode  as  follows,  not,  however,  without  several  inter- 


BOSTON     COMMON.  109 

ruptions  from  my  companion,  who  could  scarcely  contain  her 
self. 

"  About  a  year  ago,  Letise,  I  was  considered  to  be  a  little 
out  of  health,  and  my  parents  sent  me  to  a  neighboring  vil 
lage  to  recruit  my  wasted  powers.  It  was  a  sweet  little  rufal 
retreat,  on  the  banks  of  a  silver  stream,  that  danced  and  rip 
pled  all  day  in  the  sunshine,  with  a  low,  gurgling  sound, 
which  was  to  me  the  finest  music  I  had  ever  listened  to. 
Here,  with  friends,  books,  birds,  flowers,  and  everything  that 
could  charm  the  senses,  I  soon  recovered  my  health,  and  was 
just  upon  the  point  of  returning  home,  when,  upon  a  lovely 
Sabbath  morning,  as  I  was  walking  through  a  charming  piece 
of  woods  with  a  lady  friend,  I,  encountered  a  vision  of  beauty 
and  manliness  in  the  form  of  a  young  gentleman,  who  was 
immediately  introduced  to  me,  and  walked  by  my  side  to 
church.  His  manner,  his  voice,  his  language,  quite  won  my 
heart ;  and,  Letise,  would  you  believe  it,  I  returned  home  full 
of  the  image  of  the  young  man  whom  I  had  seen. 

"  "Well,  Letise,  I  dreamed  of  him  that  night,  and  waited 
anxiously  all  the  next  morning  in  the  hope  of  seeing  him ;  but 
in  vain  —  he  did  not  come,  and  I  was  obliged  to  return  home 
without  seeing  him.  But  I  did  not  forget  him,  Letise,  or  the 
few  words  he  had  said  to  me ;  no,  his  image  was  indelibly 
stamped  upon  my  heart,  and  nothing  could  erase  it  therefrom. 
In  short,  Letise,  I  was  in  love,  and  for  the  first  time  in  all  my 
life. 

"  The  days  seemed   long  to  me.     I  was  always  weary, 

always  listless ;  never  ready  to  enter  into  any  new  plan  or 

employment,  but  wished  forever  to  be  alone,  that  I  might 

ponder  over  this  new  feeling,  and  wait  in  patience  for  my 

10 


110  BOSTON     COMMON. 

.  \ 

idol  to  make  his  appearance  again.  I  felt  convinced  that  I 
should  see  him,  if  but  once  more  ?  and  my  presentiment  was 
realized,  for  upon  another  Sabbath  morning,  lovely  and  bright 
as  the  first,  I  again  beheld  him.  He  was  in  church,  and  in 
my  own  native  village  also  ;  and  as  the  sunshine  streamed  over 
his  beautiful  head,  I  compared  him  to  an  angel ;  and  surely 
he  proved  to  be  an  angel  of  peace  to  me,  for  my  patient  wait 
ing  for  him  was  now  fully  repaid,  and  I  felt  almost  sure  that 
he  would  speak,  and  let  rne  hear  once  more  the  tones  of  that 
voice  I  had  so  longed  for.  But,  alas  for  my  hopes,  he  passed 
me  as  a  perfect  stranger ! 

"  We  met  again,  not  in  the  wild  old  woods,  or  in  the  tem 
ple  of  God,  but  in  a  crowded  .ball-room,  where  my  old  ac 
quaintance  was  the  observed  of  all  observers.  I  was  once 
more  introduced  to  him,  and  had  the  extreme  happiness  of 
dancing  with  him.  But,  Letise,  he  has  ever  since  behaved 
very  strangely  to  me.  Sometimes  he  notices  me  when  we 
meet,  and  sometimes  he  does  not.  I  have  comforted  myself 
with  the  thought  that  he  may  not  always  be  in  a  speaking 
mood.  But  I  have  been  in  an  agony  of  doubt  and  fear  for  a 
long  time.  I  sometimes  think  he  does  not  return  my  love  ; 
and  O,  Letise,  if  he  should  not,  what  should  I  do  ?  " 

"  Alas  !  alas  !  "  interrupted  Letise,  wringing  her  hands. 

"  But,  my  dear  friend,"  I  gayly  continued,  "  hope  has  once 
more  sprung  up  in  my  breast,  for  the  last  few  times  we  have 
met  he  has  given  me  the  most  undeniable  tokens  of  his  affec 
tion.  He  has  never  said  in  so  many  words  that  he  loves  me  ; 
but  I  feel  convinced  that  he  does,  and  he  may  tell  me  of  his 
love  at  our  very  next  meeting.  How  happy  shall  I  be  to 
hear  him  say,  '  Helen,  I  love  you,  and  only  you ! '  This  will 


BOSTON     COMMON.  Ill 

repay  me  for  the  long  hours  I  have  spent  in  thinking  of  him, 
and  in  the  sweet  hope  that  I  shall  yet  hear  those  words  I 
•will  rest  content." 

I  ceased,  and,  lost  in  thought,  fixed  my  eyes  upon  a  distant 
mountain,  whose  top,  always  ragged  and  bluff,  could  be  seen 
from  our  little  window.  Letise  sat  partially  transfixed  in  her 
chair,  at  first  weeping  violently,  and  at  length  quite  silently. 
Attracted,  at  last,  by  her  sobs,  I  glanced  at  her  in  pity.  A 
full  sense  of  her  ridiculous  attitude  forced  itself  upon  me, 
and  I  burst  into  a  fit  of  laughter.  She  raised  her  head  in 
surprise,  and  gave  me  a  reproachful  look. 

"  What,  in  the  name  of  all  that  is  good,  are  you  crying 
about?"  exclaimed  I.  "Not  at  my  story,  are  you?  because 
if  that  makes  you  weep,  I  '11  tell  you  no  more  of  it." 

"  0  no,  dearest  Helen,"  said  she,  in  a  wo-begone  tone,  and 
with  the  most  lachrymose  countenance  imaginable  ;  "  not  at 
that,  not  at  that,  for  that  bids  fair  to  end  well,  and  God  grant 
that  it  may,  for  your  sake,  my  sweet  friend  !  But  your  story 
reminds  me  so  much  of  my  own  —  your  patient  waitings  and 
watchings  for  the  loved  object,  your  hopes  and  fears  —  ah ! 
my  case  is  an  exact  parallel  to  yours,  but  how  unlike  the 
ending  !  You  will  be  a  happy  bride,  while  I,  alas,  will  have 
to  mourn  all  my  days  for  my  lost  heart,  my  wasted  affections, 
my  misused  energies.  All  my  days,  did  I  say  ?  Alas !  I 
shall  not  live  out  half  of  them.  I  feel  that  my  time  is  short 
here ;  but  I  shall  die  with  the  blessed  consciousness  that  you 
are  happy,  my  own  one,  and  that  I  preserved  my  love  pure 
to  the  last." . 

I  looked  at  her  as  she  concluded.  She  sat  before  me  the 
very  impersonation  of  grief — a  perfect  Niobe.  Her  eyes 


112  BOSTON     COMMON. 

were  suffused  with  tears,  her  lips  quivering  with  emotion,  and 
her  cheeks  bloodless! 

"Can  she  be  in  earnest?"  thought  I.  "Is  it  possible 
that  she  loves  little  Mr.  Moore  with  such  ardor,  and  that  he 
has  had  the  cruelty  to  fling  back  her  heart  to  her,  torn  and 
bleeding,  as  she  says  ?  The  base  little  man !  *If  he  has 
dared  use  my  poor  friend  in  this  shocking  manner,  he  shall 
rue  it.  I,  yes,  I  will  speak  to  him  concerning  Letise ;  and  he 
shall  love  her,  if  my  tongue  can  make  him." 

"  There,  Letise,"  I  exclaimed  aloud,  "  dry  up  your  teare, 
and  shake  off  this  grief  that  is,  as  you  say,  killing  you.  All 
will  yet  come  out  well ;  1  feel  assured  that  it  will.  Mr. 
Moore  will  love  you  in  time.  He  is  so  kind,  so  generous,  so 
pious,  —  he  will  not  let  you  die  for  him." 

"  Ah !  my  Helen,"  she  replied,  "  your  voice,  breathing  such 
words  of  comfort  in  my  ear,  is  like  balm  to  my  wounded 
heart ;  you  are  the  emblem  of  hope  to  me,  my  dear,  and  as 
such  I  will  try  and  consider  you ;  but  there  is  nothing  for  me 
in  this  world  but  woe.  Elwyn  Moore  (ah,  the  blessed  name!) 
would  scorn  my  love,  —  would  throw  it  from  him,  as  he  has 
already  done,  —  and  leave  me  once  more  a  prey  to  the  vul 
ture,  despair ! " 

"  Elwyn  Moore,"  I  replied,  "  is  a  man  who  loves  his  God, 
and  \vho  lives  daily  in  obedience  to  his  commands.  He  would 
suffer  acutely  did  he  know  of  your  grief,  and  would  strive  to 
love  you  in  return,  and  in  time  you  too  would  be  a  happy 
wife,  Letise." 

She  shook  her  head  despairingly. 

"  Come,"  continued  I,  "  let 's  go  into  the  large  hall  and 


BOSTON     COMMON.  11,3 

have  a  game  of  grace-hoops,  or  do  something  to  shake  off  this 
sadness ;  we  may  yet  be  very  happy." 

Letise  brightened  up  at  my  proposal,  and  shook  off  her 
melancholy  so  suddenly  that  I  half  believed  she  had  affected 
a  part  of  it.  We  descended  to  the  hall,  and  in  our  merry 
sports  quite  forgot  our  tears.  We  played  cheerfully  for 
half  an  hour,  and  then  Mrs.  Marsden  called  me  to  her  room 
to  learn  a  lesson  for  the  morrow.  v  . 

I  felt  quite  comfortable  concerning  Letise,  and  resolved, 
whenever  she  was  sad  or  unhappy  thereafter,  to  resort  to 
some  pleasant  game,  trusting  that  it  might  have  the  same 
happy  effect  that  it  had  had  this  evening. 
10* 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

"  I  could  a  tale  unfold 
Whose  lightest  word  would  harrow  up  thy  soul  ! " 

HAMLET. 

"  Thou  comest  to  me  in  such  a  questionable  shape, 
That  I  will  speak  to  thee."  IBID. 

UPON  retiring  to  bed  that  night,  I  found  poor  Letise  again 
bathed  in  tears,  and  sighing  so  piteously  that  my  very  heart 
ached  for  her.  I  sat  a  few  moments  upon  a  low  stool,  mus 
ing  ;  at  length  I  arose  and  approached  the  bed. 

"  Letise,  darling,"  said  I. 

"  Helen,"  was  all  she  could  reply. 

"  I  have  just  thought  of  a  delightful  plan,  Letise." 

"  What  is  it,  Helen  ?  "  she  gasped. 

"  Why,"  I  replied,  "  you  know  that  my  uncle  Thomas  has 
given  me  the  use  of  his  library  this  winter.  It  contains,  in 
addition  to  almost  everything  else,  all  the  British  poets,  — 
Addison,  .Gray,  Pope,  Spenser,  Dryden,  Milton,  and  a  dozen 
others.  Many  of  these  we  have  never  read.  Supposing  we 
were  to  read  them  together  —  what  say  you  ?  " 

"  0,  beautiful,  enchanting,  divine  !  "  exclaimed  my  enthu 
siastic  listener. 


BOSTON     COMMON.  115 

"  Pshaw,  Letise ! "  I  replied ;  "  have  done  with  such  expres 
sions  ;  they  are  beyond  my  comprehension,  and,  besides,  they 
do  not  apply  to  us  at  all.  We  should  enjoy  it,  and  very 
much,  no  doubt ;  but,  as  f<#  going  into  raptures,  I  shall  do  no 
such  thing." 

"  Ah,  Helen,"  she  exclaimed,  "  you  are  always  so  calm,  so 
methodical ! " 

"  Well,  then,  Letise,"  I  continued,  "  we  will  begin  this  very 
evening,  if  you  please,  with  Paradise  Lost.  I  will  go  to 
the  library  and  find  the  book.  We  will  get  into  bed,  cover 
our  shoulders  with  your  big  shawl,  and  commence.  We  will 
each  read  a  page  aloud,  in  turn,  while  the  other  holds  the 
candle ;  what  say  you  ?  " 

"Just  the  thing,  Helen,"  answered  my  companion,  who 
had  again  quite  forgotten  her  tears. 

I  slipped  on  my  dressing-gown,  and,  taking  the  light,  was 
preparing  to  depart.  I  was  suddenly  stopped,  however,  by 
an  exclamation  of  horror  from  Letise.  I  looked  towards  her 
in  surprise.  She  was  sitting  up  in  bed,  her  eyes  dilated,  and 
with  extended  hand  trying  to  beckon  me  towards  her. 

"  Well,"  said  I,  "  what  now  ?  What  new  fancy  has  struck 
your  ladyship  ?  " 

"  0,  Helen,"  she  exclaimed,  in  the  most  pathetic  of  tones, 
"  do  not,  for  the  sake  of  Heaven,  venture  into  that  library 
alone,  and  at  this  hour  of  the  night,  too  !  You  will  encounter 
some  horrible  vision,  as  I  have  done.  Let  a  servant  bring 
you  the  book." 

I  set  down  my  light,  almost  angrily,  and  approached  the 
bed. 

"  Letitia  Milford,"  said  I,  "  what  a  strange  creature  you 


116  BOSTON    COMMON. 

are  becoming !  What  mean  you  by  visions,  and  such  fool 
eries  ?  There  are  no  such  things  as  ghosts  in  the  world,  and 
least  of  all  in  this  dear  old  place.  Don't  talk  of  such  things 
to  me.  Your  words  would  infect  me  with  fear,  did  I  not 
have  reason  to  suppose  that  your  brain  was  slightly  turned." 

"  0,  Helen,"  replied  Letise,  "  do  not  use  such  hard  language 
to  your  poor  friend  who  so  loves  you,  but  listen  one  moment 
while  I  repeat  something  horrible  to  you  —  something  that 
will  blanch  your  cheek  to  a  deathly  whiteness,  and  cause  the 
blood  to  curdle  in  your  veins.  Hear  my  story,  and  then  go, 
if  you  will,  to  the  Haunted  room ! " 

She  clung  to  me  in  wild  affright,  as  I  half  turned  from 
her  with  a  contemptuous  "  Pho !  "  and  in  her  earnestness 
forced  me  upon  a  seat,  and  placed  herself  at  my  feet.  I 
looked  at  her,  and,  regarding  myself  as  a  victim,  and  uttering 
the  words  "  Be  brief,"  gave  myself  up  to  my  tormentor,  as  I 
had  begun  to  regard  Letise. 

"  Helen,"  she  solemnly  commenced,  "  last  Saturday  even 
ing,  the  twenty-eighth  of  January,  one  week  ago,  I  had 
occasion  to  go  to  the  library  for  some  paper,  which  I  wanted 
to  write  upon.  I  left  your  side  (you  were  sleeping,  my  dear) 
at  eleven  o'clock,  and  stole  on  tip-toe  to  the  parlor.  When 
near  the  door,  I  thought  I  heard  a  groan,  but,  concluding  it 
to  be  the  wind,  I  walked  on.  I  crossed  the  room,  went 
through  the  little  entry,  and  gained  the  library-door.  I 
placed  my  hand  upon  the  knob  to  open  it ;  it  did  not  at  first 
yield  to  my  touch,  but,  as  I  again  tried  it,  there  seemed  to  be 
a  hand  within  the  room  trying  to  turn  the  knob  with  me.  I 
was  too  much  frightened  to  retreat,  and  so,  my  hair  standing 
on  end,  almost,  I  waited  a  second,  when  the  door  slowly 


BOSTON     COMMON.  117 

opened.  The  room  was  dark,  but,  Helen,  as  true  as  there  is 
a  heaven  above,  I  saw  —  " 

"  What,"  interrupted  I,  impatiently,  "  what  did  you  see  ?" 

"  A*tall  figure,  clothed  in —  "      ' 

"  White,  I  suppose,"  said  I ;  "  ghosts  generally  prefer  that 
color,  I  believe." 

"  No,  Helen,"  rejoined  Letise,  "  not  in  white,  but  a  tall 
figure,  clothed  in  the  deepest  black.  His  eyes  were  wild  and 
glassy,  and  as  he  fixed  them  upon  me,  with  a  stosy  expres 
sion,  his  shadowy  mouth  opened,  and  there  came  forth  two 
words  from  it." 

"  What  were  they,  pray  ?  "  I  askSl. 

"  I  did  not  stop  to  listen,"  replied  Letise,  "  for  I  was  so 
terrified  that  I  dropped  the  caudle  immediately,  and  fled, 
but  they  sounded  like  '  Look  back  !  look  back  ! '  " 

I  laughed  as  she  concluded  this  marvellous  story.  "  I  am 
not  afraid  of  anything  of  that  sort,"  said  I.  "  Give  me  the 
light,  and  I  will  explore  the  library,  and  hunt  out  this  ghost, 
if  there  be  one." 

Letise  shuddered,  and  crept  back  to  bed,  with  a  "  Heaven 
protect  you,  my  poor  Helen  !  "  while  I  grasped  the  light,  and 
walked  fearlessly  down  stairs. 

The  family  were  all  in  bed,  and  so  I  stepped  softly  across 
the  dining-room,  for  fear  of  disturbing  them,  and.  opening  a 
little  door  to  the  right,  gained  the  large  entrance-hall.  Ad 
vancing  down  the  hall,  I  presently  came  to  the  parlor-door, 
which  I  opened,  and  closed  behind  me.  In  spite  of  my  ridi 
cule  of  the  poor,  shivering  girl,  whom  I  had  left  behind  me,  I 
now,  when  I  found  myself  alone,  began  to  partake  of  her 
fears.  However,  blaming  myself  for  foolishness,  as  I  called 


118  BOSTON     COMMON. 

it,  and  determined  to  obtain  the  book  if  possible,  I  crossed 
the  large,  gloomy-looking  room,  and  gained  the  library-door. 
I  paused  a  moment  before  it,  as  if  to  examine  fhe  wood-work 
of  it.  I  had  looked  at  it  a  hundred  times,  but  now  it  inter 
ested  me  exceedingly. 

While  pausing  here,  I  heard,  or  thought  I  heard,  a  faint 
sigh,  as  if  coming  from  the  bosom  of  some  human  being  !  The 
light  almost  fell  from  my  hand,  in  my  agitation ;  but  I  soon 
gained  my  courage,  and,  whispering  to  myself  that  it  was 
nothing  but  the  wind,  fearlessly  turned  the  door-knob,  and 
entered  the  room. 

Imagine  my  horror,  when,  in  looking  towards  the  little 
table,  I  saw  the  same  figure,  clothed  in  black,  that  poor  Le- 
tise  had  just  told  me  of !  One  look  was  sufficient  for  me.  I 
turned,  and  quickly  departed,  closing  the  door  behind  me. 
As  I  gained  the  hall-door  from  the  parlor,  I  know  not  what 
spirit  of  evil  tempted  me,  but  I  looked  back  for  a  moment. 
The  figure  was  standing  in  the  centre  of  the  parlor,  and 
seemed  to  be  gazing  earnestly  after  me.  As  I  fled  across  the 
hall,  I  heard  it  speak  my  name,  in  a  low,  soft  tone.  I  waited 
not  another  moment,  but  quickly  entered  the  dining-room,  and 
retreated  to  my  chamber. 

Letise,  overcome  by  her  emotions,  I  suppose,  had  dropped 
asleep ;  and,  locking  the  door,  and  slipping  off  my  dressing- 
gown,  I  laid  myself  noiselessly  by  her  side.  To  sleep,  how 
ever,  was  impossible.  The  vision  that  I  had  just  seen  in  my 
uncle's  library  still  haunted  my  imagination.  Whichever 
way  I  turned  my  eyes,  I  still  imagined  that  I  could  see 
it. 

"  Who  and  what  can  it  be  ?  "  thought  I.     "  Strange  that 


BOSTON     COMMON.  119 

Letise  and  myself  should  both  have  seen  it,  and  at  the  same 
hour  of  night  too.  But  I  must  unravel  this  mystery.  I  will, 
when  the  morning  light  comes,  explore  the  library,  and  see  if 
it  has  left  any  traces  there  of  the  past  night." 

Towards  morning  I  fell  into  an  uneasy  and  broken  slum 
ber,  atfd  at  day-dawn,  weary  and  dispirited,  I  arose.  My 
bed-fellow  was  still  sleeping ;  and,  dressing  myself  as  noise 
lessly  as  possible,  I  once  more  sought  the  library-door. 

All  my  terrors  were  now  dispelled  by  the  morning  light, — 
that  enemy  to  ghosts  and  goblins,  —  and  I  fearlessly  entered 
the  room.  I  looked  around.  Everything  was  in  its  place. 
The  books  were  undisturbed  ;  the  table,  with  its  globes,  writ 
ing  and  drawing  materials,  remained  as  usual.  A  beautiful 
picture  of  the  Madonna,  which  hung  near  the  door,  was  look 
ing  at  me  with  its  calm,  pure  eyes ;  and,  much  relieved,  I 
seated  myself  by  the  window,  which  looked  upon  the  garden. 

All  this  calmness  and  reality  could  not  dispel  the  vision  of 
the  past  night,  however.  "I  did  see  it,"  said  I,  "  a  tall  figure, 
clothed  in  black.  Who  or  what  it  was,  I  cannot  tell ;  but  I 
am  certain  that  I  saw  it,  and  in  this  very  room,  too.  I  also 
heard  it  distinctly  speak  my  name ;  and  I  must,  if  possible, 
firtd  out  who  it  was,  and  what  it  wanted  of  me." 

Aroused  at  length  from  my  meditations,  by  the  ringing  of 
the  first  bell,  I  found  the  "  Paradise  Lost,"  and  returned  to 
my  chamber.  In  a  few  moments  after  my  entrance,  Letise 
awakened,  and  arose.  I  scarcely  knew  what  to  say  to  her,  but 
determined  to  conceal  from  her  the  adventure  of  the  past 
night,  for  the  present,  at  least.  Putting  on  a  smile,  there 
fore,  I  thus  addressed  her  : 

"Well,  Letise,  aren't  you  a  nice  one  to  keep  awake?    I 


120  BOSTON     COMM.OX.      .. 

thought  you  disliked  sleepy  people.  Could  you  not  keep 
awake  long  enough  for  me  to  go  to  and  return  from  the 

•ary  ?  " 

Letise  smiled.  "  I  was  very  weary,  I  suppose,"  she  re 
plied  ;  "  but,  good  heavens,  Helen  !  what  makes  you  look  so 
pale  and  wo-begone  ?  Have  you,  too,  seen  the  —  " 

"  Hush,  Letise  !  "  I  answered  ;  "  say  no  more  of  that  cir 
cumstance.  Here  is  the  '  Paradise  Lost,'  and  we  will  com 
mence  reading  it  to-night,  if  you  please." 

Every  one  noticed  my  paleness  at  the  breakfast-table,  and 
commented  upon  it.  It  being  the  Sabbath,  I  was  released 
from  study  for  the  day,  and  advised  to  take  a  quieting  dose, 
and  lie  down.  I  contented  myself,  however,  by  taking  a  little 
nap  in  aunt  Mary's  easy-chair,  and  tried  to  wait  patiently 
until  evening  came ;  for  I  determined  that,  at  the  same  hour 
as  on  the  preceding  night,  I  would  again  seek  the  library, 
and  discover,  if  possible,  who  or  what  it  was  that  had  so  fear 
fully  alarmed  both  Letise  and  myself. 

Night  came  at  last,  and,  refreshed  by  the  siesta  I  had 
taken,  I  was  enabled  to  go  through  the  hour's  reading  with 
Letise.  She  was  highly  delighted  with  my  plan,  and  en 
joyed  the  beautiful,  sublime  poem,  with  the  truest  relish  ; 
for  Letise,  with  all  her  nonsense,  was  really  intellectual,  and 
I  hoped  in  this  way  to  draw  her  mind  into  a  better  train 
of  thought  than  that  to  which  she  had  hitherto  accus 
tomed  it. 

At  eleven  o'clock  we  extinguished  our  light,  and  lay  down, 
—  Letise  full  of  the  beautiful  thoughts  which  the  poem  had 
inspired,  and  I  thinking  of  nothing  but  the  adventure  of  the 
past  night. 


BOSTON     COMMON.  121 

"I  must  fathom  this  mystery,"  thought  I,  "or  I  shall 
never  have  another  moment's  peace." 

As  soon  as  Letise's  heavy  breathing  assured  me  that  she 
was  asleep,  I  arose,  and,  lighting  my  candle,  dressed  myself 
hastily,  and  descended  to  the  dining-room  once  more.  Cross 
ing  the  hall,  and  entering  the  parlor,  I  again  found  myself 
opposite  the  dreaded  library-door.  After  waiting  here  a  few 
moments,  to  gain  courage,  I  suppose,  I  at  length  slowly 
opened  the  door. 

I  glanced  hastily  around  the  room.  In  one  corner  kneeled, 
or  rather  lay,  the  object  of  my  terror  the  preceding  night.  I 
know  not  how  I  did  it,  but  I  suddenly  crossed  the  threshold, 
and  advanced  towards  the  person,  who  slowly  arose  from  his 
recumbent  posture,  and  confronted  me.  This  was  too  much 
for  even  my  courage,  and  I  turned,  and,  dropping  the  candle, 
was  about  to  fly,  when  the  object,  whatever  it  was,  seized  my 
hand,  and  again  pronounced  my  name ! 

I  was  about  to  scream,  when  he  laid  his  hand  caressingly 
upon  my  arm,  and  said, 

"  Hush,  Helen !  what  do  you  fear  ?  'T  is  I,  your  cousin, 
Harry  Glenmore  !  " 

I  looked  at  him  in  surprise.  Just  then  the  moon  came  out 
bright  from  behind  a  cloud,  and  revealed  Harry's  features, 
sure  enough ;  but  he  looked  so  pale  and  ghastly  in  the  moon 
light,  that  I  was  alarmed. 

"  0,  Harry  !  "  I  exclaimed,  "  how  you  look,  and  how  you 
frightened  me !  What  are  you  doing  here,  at  this  hour  of 
the  night  ?  You  appear  to  be  really  sick,  and  should  be  in 
bed." 

Harry  was  seeking  for  a  match,  with  which  to  relight  my 
11 


122  BOSTON     COMMON. 

broken  candle.  He  soon  found  one.  "Now  may  I  ask," 
said  he,  placing  the  candle  upon  the  table,  "what  are  you 
doing,  at  this  late  hour  ?  You  were  here  last  night  also,  and 
Miss  Milford  was  here  a  week  ago." 

I  laughingly  related  to  him  the  whole  adventure,  at  which 
he  smiled.  "  0,  Harry !  "  said  I,  in  conclusion,  "  I  am  so 
glad  that  it  is  only  you,  after  all !  " 

"  And  so,  Helen,"  said  he,  "  you  thought  that  I  was  a  real 
ghost  ?  Well,  I  supposed  as  much,  and  on  that  account  did 
not  anticipate  a  second  visit  from  you." x 

"  Now,  Harry,"  said  I,  coaxingly,  "  please  tell  me  what 
you  do  come  here  nights  for.  You  will  catch  the  consump 
tion,  or  some  other  disease,  if  you  persist  in  it." 

"I  will  tell  you  with  pleasure,"  he  replied.  "From  my 
earliest  childhood,  I  have  been  accustomed  to  spend  one  hour 
daily  in  devotion  ;  and,  in  order  to  accomplish  this  purpose, 
I,  every  night,  at  eleven  o'clock,  seek  this  remote  part  of  the 
house,  where  I  can  prostrate  myself  before  my  Maker,  and 
tell  him  how  full  my  heart  is  of  love  towards  him.  I  cannot 
do  this  in  my  own  room,  as  there  are  two  or  three  others 
there,  and  my  heart  is  so  full  of  love  for  God  at  this  hour, 
that  I  must  be  entirely  alone  with  him.  At  such  times,  I 
feel  drawn  very  near  to  him,  and' .enjoy  this  communion  more 
than  I  can  describe,  or  you  imagine." 

"  Dear  Harry  !  "  exclaimed  I,  admiringly,  "  how  good  you 
are  —  so  full  of  piety  —  so  devotional !  I  wish  I  were  like 
you !  " 

"  And  you  can  be  so,  little  Nellie,"  he  replied,  "  only  try 
in  the  right  way.  Give  yourself  up  wholly,  for  one  hour  out 
of  the  twenty-four,  to  your  Maker.  He  surely  deserves  as 


BOSTON    COMMON.  123 

much  as  this  from  you  —  and  you  will  find  yourself  drawing 
nearer  and  nearer  to  him,  every  hour  that  you  thus  devote  to 
him.  Say,  will  you  do  this  ?  " 

"  I  fear,"  answered  I,  much  affected  by  his  earnestness, 
"  that  I  am  not  fit  for  such  a  holy  purpose.  I  am  proud, 
self-willed,  obstinate,  and  all  this.  I  dare  not  hold  such 
close  communion  with  my  Maker.  Harry,  if  I  were  only 
good,  like  you —  " 

"  Hush,  Nellie,"  interrupted  my  cousin,  "  I  am  not  good ; 
very  far  from  being  so ;  but  I  do  love  to  draw  near  to  God, 
to  pour  out  all.  my  complaints  to  him,  to  earnestly  beseech 
him  to  pardon  my  many  sins ;  and  then  I  feel  so  happy  after 
such  a  petition  !  I  can  almost  fancy  that  I  see  him  looking 
into  my  very  heart,  and  can  feel  that  he  is  breathing  accents 
of  forgiveness  into  my  soul !  0,  Nellie,  't  is  so  beautiful  to 
be  near  God,  at  such  times,  —  to  feel  yourself  in  his  very 
presence,  as  it  were  ! 

"  I  call  this  library  my  paradise,"  he  continued,  "  my 
heaven  ;  for  it  is  here  that  I  enjoy  happiness  akin  to  the 
angdis'.  0,  Nellie !  "  he  went  on,  his  spiritual  face  glowing 
with  the  enthusiasm  of  his  soul,  "  there  is,  there  can  be,  no 
happiness  equal  to  mine  in  this  respect.  I  would  not  barter 
this  sweet  hour  for  all  the  treasures  of  earth  ;  it  is  to  me  the 
very  essence  of  existence,  —  the  all  that  my  soul  knows  of 
true  happiness.  All  that  it  dreams  of  bliss  is  experienced 
in  this,  my  hour  of  devotion,  when  I*  enjoy  the  society  of 
the  Highest,  when  I  am  honored  with  a  visit  from  the  Al 
mighty  ! " 

He  ceased,  and,  bowing  his  head  upon  his  hands,  remained 
in  deep  thought.  I  looked  at  him  as  he  sat  thus  before  me, 


124:  BOSTON     COMMON. 

the  very  impersonation  of  devotion,  and,  supposing  that  he 
had  quite  forgotten  my  presence,  resolved  to  retire  from  the 
library.  I  softly  arose,  therefore,  and  glided  away.  I  had 
scarcely  reached  the  parlor-door,  when  I  felt  a  gentle  touch 
upon  my  shoulder.  Looking  up,  I  met  the  deep,  spiritual 
eyes  of  my  cousin,  fixed  intently  upon  my  face. 

"  Nellie,  my  little  Nell,"  said  he,  "  will  you  think  of  all  I 
have  said  to  you  this  night  ?  " 

"  I  will,  indeed,"  I  replied. 

"  And  will  you  try  to  do  as  I  have  urged? " 

"  I  will  think  of  it,  and  try  to  do  as  you-  wish.  But,  0 
Harry,  pray  for  me,  that  I  may  be  fitted,  by  the  Spirit  of 
God,  for  this  new  duty,  this  pleasure,  as  you  term  it." 

"  I  will,  indeed,"  he  replied  ;  "  and  now,  dear  Nellie,  good 
night,  and  God  bless  you." 

I  walked  slowly  towards  my  chamber,  much  impressed 
with  the  scene  I  had  just  witnessed,  and  very  glad  to  find 
that  my  terrible  ghost  had  turned  out  to  be  no  worse  than 
dear  Harry  Glenmore. 

Upon  returning  to  my  chamber,  I  immediately  awakened 
Letise,  and  related  to  her  the  adventure  of  the  preceding 
night,  as  well  as  this  also.  She  was  quite  as  much  astonished 
as  I  wished  her  to  be,  but  was,  happily  for  my  nerves,  which 
were  getting  very  sensitive,  far  too  sleepy  to  subside  into  her 
usual  raptures. 


,  CHAPTER    XV. 

"  He  fondly  sued,  and  warmly  pressed, 
To  win  her  to  his  mind." 

THE  next  evening  being  cold  and  stormy,  Mr.  Moore  pro 
posed  that  Letitia  and  myself  should  go  to  his  room  and 
write  a  difficult  French  exercise,  that  had  long  been  left  un 
finished.  At  the  conclusion  of  this  task,  Letitia  arose  and 
left  the  room.  I  was  about  to  follow  her  example,  when  Mr. 
Moore  called  me  back. 

"Miss  Helen,"  said  he,  "I  would  be  most  happy  to  have 
you  remain  a  few  moments  longer ;  I  have  something  to  say 
to  you." 

I  looked  at  him  in  wonder.  He  was  standing  with  one  foot 
•upon  the  round  of  a  chair,  and  trying  to  balance  an  elbow 
upon  the  back  of  it. 

"  Well  sir,"  I  replied,  "  what  do  you  wish  to  say  ?  " 

"Take  a  chair  and  sit  down,"  he  replied.  "I  scarcely 
know  how  to  commence  my  subject,  Miss  Helen ;  but,  trusting 
that  you  will  pardon  my  abruptness,  and  pity  my  feelings, 
I  will  intrust  a  secret  to  your  ears,  that  I  have  hitherto  kept 
buried  in  my  own  bosom." 

I  was  very  well  pleased  to  hear  him  thus  broach  a  subject 
that  I  had  longed  to  mention  to  him  for  some  time ;  and, 
11* 


126  BOSTON     COMMON. 

assuring  him  that  it  needed  no  apology,  desired  him  to  pro 
ceed. 

"  Well,  then,  Miss  Helen,"  said  he,  blushing  up  to  the 
temples,  "  to  make  a  long  story  short,  I  have  become  exceed 
ing  attached  to  a  young  lady  in  this  house,  all  unknown  to 
herself;  and  now  I  tell  you  of  it,  that  you  may  intercede,  and 
induce  her  to  favor  my  suit.  Will  you  promise  to  do  this 
forme?" 

I  looked  up  in  his  face  quickly,  and,  rising,  laid  my  hand 
upon  his  arm. 

"  0,  dear  Mr.  Moore,"  I  replied,  "  I  am  so  glad,  so  happy,  to 
hear  you  thus  introduce  a  subject  that  has  long  lain  next  to 
my  heart !  You  know  not  how  much  I  have  thought  of  you 
in  connection  with  that  lady,  and  how  I  have  longed  to  speak 
to  you  concerning  her." 

"  Have  you  ?  "  he  exclaimed  ;   "  then  you  bid  me  hope  ?  " 

"  I  do  indeed,  sir,"  I  replied.  "  There  is  hope  for  }^ou,  — 
and  more  than  hope,  a  certainty ;  for  I  can  assure  you  that  the 
lady  deeply  and  truly  loves  you ;  nay,  more,  that  her  very 
existence  is  bound  up  with  yours;  —  and,  0,  I  am  so  glad!  " 
I  continued.  -  "  I  had  thought  you  cruel,  cold,  heartless,  and 
all  that ;  but  you  are  only  too  good,  too  kind,  in  my  eyes, 
and  we  shall  all  be  so  happy  !  " 

I  paused,  for  Mr.  Moore  had  risen,  and  was  gazing  ear 
nestly  into 'my  face.  He  took  my  hand.  — "  0,  Helen,  dear 
Helen  !  "  said  he,  "  is  it  possible  that  you  can  thus,  and  by 
a  few  blessed  words,  convert  my  doubt  and  fear  into  such 
intense  bliss?  Can  I  believe  my  own  ears"^  " 

"  You  can,  you  can,"  I  replied  ;  "  I  speak  in  earnest." 

He  bent  a  look  upon  me,  as  I  supposed  of  gratitude,  and, 


BOSTON      COMMON.  127 

rising,  placed  an  arm  about  my  waist,  and  attempted  to  kiss 
my  cheek ! 

"  Mr.  Moore,"  said  I,  attributing  his  emotions  still  to  grat 
itude,  "  you  are  welcome  to  my  share  in  this  business ;  but 
please  to  remember,  sir,  that  I  am  very  young,  and  your  pupil 
also,  and  preserve  your  testimonials  of  gratitude  for  their 
rightful  owner  —  for  Letitia." 

"  For  Letitia  ?  "  he  gasped ;  "  and  why  for  her  ?  What  have 
I  to  do  with  her,  when  I  love,  when  I  adore,  but  you,  dear 
est  Helen?" 

I  started,  and  looked  in  the  direction  of  the  door.  Mr. 
Moore  still  grasped  my  hand.  "  0,  Helen,"  he  exclaimed, 
"  have  you,  then,  been  making  a  jest  of  your  poor  teacher?  " 

"  No,  indeed,  sir,"  I  replied  ;  "  I  thought,  sir,  —  I  supposed, 
sir,  that  you  were  speaking  of  Letitia.  I  had  no  idea,  sir — " 
I  could  say  no  more,  but,  covering  my  face  with  my  hands, 
burst  into  tears. 

"  0,  Helen,"  said  Mr.  Moore,  "  speak  to  me !  —  tell  me  you 
love  me  !  —  say  you  did  not  think  that  I  could  place  my  affec 
tions  upon  that  brainless,  love-sick  girl  ?  " 

"  Sir,"  I  replied,  "  I  do  not  love  you,  and  never  shall  do 
more  than  respect  you;  and  as  for  your  calling  my  dear 
Letitia  brainless,  and  all  that,  let  me  tell  you,  sir,  that  she  is 
very  far  from  being  brainless ;  and,  if  she  is  love-sick,  sir, 
who  has  made  her  so  butxyourself?  I  am  astonished,  sir, 
that,  knowing,  as  you  must  do,  her  preference  for  you,  you 
can  thus  declare  your  love  for  another,  and  that  other  her 
intimate  friend ! " 

Elwyn  Moore  turned,  and  gave  me  such  a  reproachful  look 
as  made  my  heart  grow  sick.  "  I  thank  you,  Miss  Clifton," 


128  BOSTON     COMMON. 

said  he,  "  for  your  attention  thus  far.  How  much  I  regret 
your  decision,  I  will  not,  dare  not,  say.  Time  alone  will  tell 
how  much  I  suffer.  I  '11  not  trouble  you  with  it ;  but,  my 
dear  young  lady,  as  for  Letitia  Milford,  you  need  give  your 
self  no  uneasiness  concerning  her.  She  will  outlive  a  dozen 
such  ones  as  you  or  myself;  and,  after  falling  in  love  with 
every  one  who  crosses  her  path,  will  at  last  settle  down  into 
a  commonplace,  sensible  woman,  with  one,  perhaps,  whom 
she  really  loves." 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Moore,"  I  replied,  "  you  do  not  know  Letitia, 
or  you  could  not  talk  thus.  She  weeps  half  her  time,  and  is 
always  talking  of  you  in  terms  the  most  endearing  and  ex 
travagant  which  her  dictionary  can  produce." 

"  Let  me  set  your  innocent  little  heart  at  rest,"  said  he, 
"  with  regard  to  Miss  Milford.  She  has  been  in  this  semi 
nary  one  year  and  three  months,  and  has,  in  that  short  space 
of  time,  fallen  in  love,  as  she  terms  it,  with  a  half-dozen 
others,  all  better  than  myself.  I  came  here  five  months 
before  you.  My  predecessor  in  her  affections  had  just  left, 
and  since  that  time  she  has  been  all  devotion  to  my  humble 
self.  I  have  never  noticed  her  attentions  much,  however,  and 
she  has  imagined  me  to  be  a  desperate  case,  and  has,  in  conse 
quence,  put  forth  all  her  arts  to  win  my  love ;  but  I  have 
ever  kept  aloof  from  all  her  enticements,  having,  until  you 
came  to  the  '  Glen,'  dear  Miss  Clifton,  too  much  to  occupy 
my  time  to  think  of  love." 

"  But,  sir,"  I  persisted,  "  let  me  still  plead  for  Letitia. 
She  is,  she  must  be,  in  earnest,  this  time.  If  you  do  not  love 
her,  sir,  at  least  respect  her  feelings,  and  try  to  think  as  well 
of  her  as  you  can." 


BOSTON     COMMON.  129 

Elwyn  Moore  leaned  his  head  upon  his  hand,  and  mused. 
"  Perhaps,  Miss  Clifton,"  he  said,  at  length,  "  you  may  be 
right ;  and  I  ought,  as  you  very  justly  remark,  to  respect  her 
feelings.  I  will  do  so.  I  will  try  and  think  well  of  her, 
whether  she  deserves  it  or  not.  And  now  good-by,  dear 
little  Miss  Helen,  for  the  present,  and  may  God  forever  bless 
you!" 

I  bade  him  farewell,  and  sought  my  chamber  in  a  shower 
of  tears.  I  wept  for  the  good,  the  honest  heart,  I  had  left 
solitary  in  his  chamber,  mourning,  perhaps,  over  his  blighted 
affections.  I  wept  also  for  poor  Letitia.  If  I  could  but 
have  brought  them  together  in  this  interview,  how  very 
happy  I  should  have  been  ! 

"  Poor,  dear  Letise  !  "  thought  I  ;*  "  she  will  die  for  Mr. 
Moore,  and  I  shall  be  the  cause  of  it.  Had  I  never 
come  to  this  lonesome  old  Glen,  Mr.  Moore  would  perhaps 
have  loved  her,  and  they  might  have  been  so  very  happy ! 
0,  what  can  I  do  to  give  back  to  my  poor  friend  the  heart  I 
have  robbed  her  of  so  unconsciously  ?  I  will  be  very  kind  to 
her,  and  have  one  more  talk  with  Elwyn  Moore.  Who  knows 
but  he  may  love  her  yet?  " 

Full  of. these  sad  thoughts,  I  undressed,  and  lay  down  be 
side  Letitia,  who  was  sleeping  so  soundly,  and  looking  so 
rosy  and  happy,  that  the  thought  crossed  my  mind  involun 
tarily,  "  Can  she  be  so  wretched  as  she  pretends,  with  that 
sweet  look  upon  her  face,  and  that  calm,  unclouded  brow?" 
I  leaned  over  her,  and  imprinted  a  kiss  upon  her  cheek,  and, 
murmuring,  "  A  strange  being  you  are,  Letise  !  "  lay  myself 
by  her  side,  and  was  soon  in  the  land  of  dreams. 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

"  Passion  is  destiny, — 
The  heart  is  its  own  fate." 

FESTCS. 

"All  things  to  me 
Show  their  dark  sides.     Somewhere  there  must  be  light." 

IBID. 

ONE  bright,  pleasant  morning,  about  a  week  after  my  inter 
view  with  Elwyn  Moore,  I  was  leaning  pensively  from  my 
window,  and  looking  far  over  the  hills,  where  my  home  lay. 
My  mind  was,  as  usual,  fixed  upon  Roland.  "  I  wonder  what 
he  is  doing  !  "  thought  I ;  "  perhaps  he  is  thinking  of  me  at 
this  moment.  0,  if  I  could  but  see  him,  —  what  happi 
ness  !  " 

At  this  moment  I  caught  the  distant  sound  of  sleigh-bells 
and,  leaning  still  further  from  my  window,  I  could  just  discern 
the  head  of  a  white  horse,  approaching  in  the  distance. 
"  Perhaps  it  comes  from  home,"  thought  I.  I  waited  a 
;few  moments  longer,  and  then  my  eyes  discerned  a  form 
that  made  the  blood  rush  to  face  and  brow ;  and  wondering 
and  half  conjecturing  what  Roland  could  want  of  me  thus 
early,  I  resolutely  drew  my  curtain,  and  seated  myself  at  the 
table. 


BOSTON     COMMON.  131 

With  what  trembling  patience  did  I  await  the  arrival  of 
the  sleigh,  and  how  eagerly  did  I  listen  to  catch  tile  familiar 
voice  from  below ! 

The  sleigh  came  on,  with  a  quick,  merry  jingle  from  the 
bells,  and  in  a  few  moments  had  stopped  at  the  door.  I 
heard  the  voice  of  Roland  inquiring  for  Miss  Clifton,  and, 
placing  my  hand  upon  my  heart,  I  tried  to  still  its  joyful 
beatings.  Old  Iluthy  entered. 

"  O,  Miss  Nellie !  "  said  she,  "  there 's  sich  a  beautiful 
young  man  below,  waiting  for  yees  ! — he  has  just  asked  to 
see  y.e.  Go  right  away,  —  there 's  a  darlint,  —  don't  kape 
the  likes  of  him  waitin'  for  ye.  Bless  his  swate  eyes,  — how 
they  do  shine,  to  be  sure  !  " 

I  arose,  and,  arranging  my  hair  slightly  at  the  little  glass, 
descended  to  the  sitting-room.  I  looked  around  for  Roland. 
He  was  standing  in  one  corner  of  the  room,  opposite  a  large 
picture,  attentively  scanning  it,  when  I  entered,  but  turned 
around  immediately. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Clifton,"  said  he,  advancing,  and  taking 
both  my  unresisting  hands  within  his,  "  how  very  happy  I  am 
to  see  you  looking  so  charmingly  this  morning !  " 

"  And  I,  too,"  I  replied,  "  am  equally  happy  in  finding  you 
well." 

We  sat  down  and  conversed  gnyly  together  a  few  moments. 
At  length  Roland  arose.  "  Helen,"  said  he,  "  I  must  abridge 
my  visit,  this  morning.  I  came  to  invite  you  to  attend  a 
large  "ball,  which  is  to  take  place  this  evening,  at  Jjinden 
Hall.  Shall  I  have  the  pleasure  of  your  company  thither?" 

I  was  quite  delighted.  "  I  will  ask  Mr.  Marsden  if  I'may 
go,"  I  replied. 


BOSTON     COMMON. 

"  Do  so,"  he  answered.     "  I  trust  you  may  be  allowed  to 

go." 

My  feet  scarcely  touched  the  floor,  as  I  hurriedly  sought 
the  school-room.  Walking  straight  up  to  Mr.  Marsden,  I 
proffered  my  request.  He  looked  at  me  a  moment. 

"  It  is  against  our  rules,  Helen,"  said  he,  "  to  allow  o.ur 
pupils  to  attend  balls ;  but  no  one  could  refuse  you  with  that 
face.  Yes,  you  may  go  —  but  you  must  not  presume  upon 
my  kindness  to  ask  again.  Let  this  time  suffice." 

"  0,  thank  you,  sir,  thank  you,  you  are  very  good,"  I  ex 
claimed.  I  sought  Roland,  and,  telling  him  the  success  of 
my  mission,  he  prepared  to  depart. 

"Be  ready  at  seven,"  said  he,  as  he  turned  his  horse's 
head.  "I  depend  a  deal  upon  to-night,  for  I  have  much 
to  tell  you.  Good-by,  Nellie."  He  departed,  and,  with  my 
head  and  heart  full  of  the  most  delightful  anticipations,  I 
sought  my  room  and  Letise,  to  tell  her  the  joyful  news,  and  to 
consult  with  her  about  my  dress. 

" '  I  depend  a  deal  upon  to-night  —  I  have  much  to  tell 
you ! '  —  What  could  he  possibly  mean  by  that,  Letise  ?  " 

"  Why,"  she  replied,  "  he  wishes  to  tell  you  how  fondly 
he  loves,  how  ardently  he  adores,  and  how  wildly  he  worships 
you." 

"  I  thought,"  said  I,  "  that  it  was  something  like  this.  0, 
yes,  he  has  long  wished  to  tell  me  the  story  of  his  love,  and 
what  an  opportunity  will  to-night  be  !  — a  fine,  long  ride  in 
the  moonlight ;  —  0,  dear  Letise,  I  am  wild  with  joy  !  " 

Letise  smiled.  —  "  And  when  I  see  you  thus  joyful,"  said 
she,  "  I  half  forget  my  own  sorrows,  and  feel  happy,  too.  Go, 
dearest  Helen,  and  may  to-night  be  a  night  that  will  be  long 


BOSTON     COMMON.  183 

remembered  as  the  happiest  in  your  life.     I  ardently  wish  it 
may  be  so." 

"  Thank  you,  my  kind  Letise ;  and  now  what  shall  I  wear  ? 
I  must  look  as  well  as  possible,  you  know,  so  that  I  may  not 
disgrace  my  partner." 

"  Dress  simply,"  replied  my  companion ;  "  that  style  suits 
your  age  and  beauty  the  best ;  and  you  have  charms  enough 
in  his  eyes,  without  the  aid  of  ornament  to  enhance  them." 

"  Well,  then,  Letise,  I  will  wear  white,  with  rose-colored 
flowers  and  ribbons." 

"  Beautiful,  beautiful,"  exclaimed  Letise,  "  for  a  young 
maiden,  and  especially  for  a  young  maiden  who  is  in  love. 
It  is  an  emblem  of  your  •  bridal,  dear  Helen,  that,  I  pray, 
may  soon  take  place." 

I  blushed  as  I  laid  the  pure  white  muslin  on  the  bed,  and 
placed  the  flowers  beside  it.  Letise  insisted  upon  curling  my 
hair,  and  managing  it  all  her  own  way,  and  I,  of  course,  con 
sented.  We  seated  ourselves  by  the  window,  and  conversed 
long  and  earnestly,  as  only  school-girls  can  converse. 

""And  you  will  tell  me,  Nell,"  said  Letise,  "  every  word  that 
Roland  says  to  you,  and  how  he  looked,  and  acted,  and  all 
that ;  for  I  shall  so  long  to  hear  it !  " 

"  Dear  Letise,"  I  replied,  "  you  are  so  kind,  so  affectionate ! 
You  shall  see  my  hero  to-night,  when  he  comes  for  me. 
Please  be  happy  when  I  am  away,  for  I  shall  think  of  you; 
and  you  will  not  weep  for  my  absence,  nor  your  own  sorrows, 
dearest  Letise  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  answered,  "  I  will  be  as  calm  as  possible,  and, 
in  the  sweet  assurance  that  you  are  happy,  will  try  and  be  so 
myself." 

12 


134  BOSTON     COMMON. 

How  full  of  joyful  anticipations  was  I  this  day  !  How 
fleetly  did  the  hours  glide  by  !  I  scarcely  heeded  their  prog 
ress,  but,  somehow,  the  lessons  were  not  learned  very  readily, 
—  I  could  not  impress  the  words  upon  my  memory.  That 
faculty  was,  for  once,  unfaithful,  and  the  image  of  Hastings 
reigned  paramount  in  my  mind. 

At  length  the  long-expected  hour  arrived,  and,  full  of  joy, 
which  sparkled  from  my  eyes,  and  illuminated  my  whole 
countenance,  I  descended  to  the  sitting-room,  to  await  the 
arrival  of  my  lover.  When  I  look  back  upon  this  day,  it 
seems  strange  that  I  should  have  felt  such  pure,  such  un 
mixed  happiness,  without  a  shadow  of  the  coming  evil.  Well 
might  I  enjoy  its  fleeting,  happy  fyooirs,  for  they  were  the  last 
I  experienced  for  many  a  long  day. 

While  I  sat  musing  by  the  fire,  Letise  entered  and  gave 
me  the  welcome  tidings  that  Roland  was  in  sight.  In  a  few 
moments  he  had  drawn  up  to  the  door,  alighted,  and  entered. 
Coming  up  to  me,  he  took  my  hand  within  his. 

"Dear  Helen,  how  sweetly  you  look  to-night!"  he  ex 
claimed,  fixing  his  soft,  dark  eyes,  upon  my  agitated  counte 
nance.  I  glanced  at  him  a  moment,  and  thought  I  perceived 
a  gleam  of  triumph  in  those  eyes.  It  was  only  for  a 
moment,  however ;  it  died  away  as  I  replied  to  his  greeting 
in  an  unajBFected  manner,  and  ended  by  introducing  him  to  my 
friend  Letise,  who  placed  her  hand  upon  her  heart,  and 
bowed  nearly  to  the  ground. 

By  the  aid  of  my  friend,  I  was  soon  robed  for  my  ride, 
and  handed  by  Roland  into  the  sleigh.  How  vividly  is 
every  little  circumstance  of  that  evening  impressed  upon  my 
mind,  even  to  this  late  day !  How  faithfully  does  memory 


BOSTON     COMMON.  135 

carry  me  back  to  that  too  happy  period,  when  love,  pure  love, 
gilded  every  object  with  its  own  rosy  hues,  and  threw  a  veil 
of  dazzling  brightness  over  the  future  ! 

Our  ride  in  the  moonlight  was  delightful.  We  conversed 
upon  every  subject  but  love,  and  I  began  to  wonder  to  my 
self  why  Roland  did- not  say  something  to  me  concerning  his 
feelings ;  but,  supposing  that  he  intended  to  keep  the  sweet 
revealment  until  our  journey  back,  tried  to  satisfy  my  impa 
tience,  and  entered  gayly  into  the  conversation. 

We  soon  arrived  at  the  ball-room,  which  was  glittering 
with  light  and  beauty.  When  I  entered,  the  gay  throng 
gathered  around  me,  and  greeted  me  so  warmly,  that  I  was 
assured  my  temporary  absence  had  not  at  all  obliterated  me 
from  their  minds. 

"  Who  did  you  come  with,  Nell?  "  said  Florence  May. 

"  Why,  who  do  you  suppose,"  replied  Lucy  Bell,  "  but 
the  hero  of  the  day,  the  '  cynosure  of  all -eyes,'  '  the  glass  of 
fashion,  and  the  mould  of  form,'  Roland  Hastings?  He  has 
been  so  dull  without  you,  this  winter,"  she  continued,  "  so 
moody  and  abstracted,  that  we  have  hardly  dared  speak  to 
him.  You  must  have  frowned  upon  his  love,  Helen,  al 
though  I  cannot  conceive  how  that  is  possible,  blest  as  he  is 
with  all  the  beauties  and  fascinations  of  manhood.  Why,  if 
he  were  only  in  love  with  me,  now,  I  should  receive  him  at 
once,  with  the  utmost  satisfaction,  if  all  the  riches  of  the 
world  were  at  my  feet." 

Conceiving  that  there  was  something  ill-natured  in  her 
remarks,  I  turned  away,  without  deigning  to  reply,  and 
sought  Mary  Liston  and  Katherine  Merton,  who  were 
seated  in  one  corner  of  the  drawing-room.  The  latter  saluted 


136  BOSTON     COMMON. 

me  very  affectionately,  and  seated  me  between  her  and  her 
companion.  Soon  the  gay  music  struck  up,  and  in  the  mazes 
of  the  dance,  and  with  Roland  by  my  side,  I  experienced  a 
few  hours  of  such  unalloyed  happiness  as  seldom  fulls  to  the 
lot  of  mortals  in  this  world. 

Time  glided  quickly  by.  Roland  was  all  kindness  and 
attention,  but  at  length  the  hour  of  our  enjoyment  drew  to  a 
close.  "  My  sleigh  is  ready,"  said  Hastings,  at  one  o'clock, 
"  and  we  must  hasten,  for  we  have  a  long  ride  before  us." 

"  Dear  Roland,"  thought  I,  "  how  very  impatient  he  is  to 
have  me  all  to  himself  once  more !  "  I  sought  the  dressing- 
room,  and  was  busily  engaged  in  putting  on  my  cloak  and 
furs,  when  I  suddenly  felt  a  soft  arm  about  my  waist.  Turn 
ing  around,  I  beheld  the  sweet  countenance  of  Katherine 
Merton  regarding  me  with  much  affection.  "  Helen,  dear 
est,"  said  she,  "  I  have  something  to  say  to  you ;  come  this 
way." 

We  seated  ourselves  upon  a  bundle  of  cloaks,  in  a  corner 
of  the  dressing-room,  and  Kate  began  : 

"  Dear  Helen,"  she  said,  "  and  so  you  have  a  lover  once 
more,  have  you  ?  " 

I  blushed.  "Ah !  "  she  continued,  "  that  pretty  color  at 
once  proclaims  the  truth ;  but  your  refusing  him  has  given  me 
great  joy,  and  I  am  rejoiced  to  think  that  your  strong  good 
sense  has  predominated  over  your  love ;  for  that  young  man, 
Helen,  with  all  his  beauty,  grace,  and  blandishments,  is  not 
worthy  of  you." 

"A  lover,  Katie  !  "  I  exclaimed.  "  1  have  refused  him  ? 
not  worthy  of  me  —  what  mean  you  ?  " 

"  Why,  have  you  not  refused  him,  and  lately,  too  ?  " 


BOSTON     COMMON.  137 

"  No,  indeed,  Katherine,  nor  has  he  ever  said  one  word  to 
me  concerning  love." 

"  But  he  has  been  very  kind  and  attentive  to  you,  has  he 
not?" 

"He  has;  and  0,  Katie,  I  only  pray  that  he  maybe  in 
earnest;  for  I  do  love  him,  and  have  done  so  for  many 
months." 

Kate  bent  her  eyes  upon  the  carpet  a  moment,  in  deep 
thought ;  then  raising  them,  placed  them  upon  my  face. 

11 0,  Helen,"  she  said,  "do  not  love  that  man;  cast  him 
entirely  from  your  mind !  He  is  not  good,  not  pure  enough, 
for  you.  I  cannot  yield  you,  my  cherished  friend,  to  him, 
—  indeed,  I  cannot." 

A  cloud  came  before  my  eyes,  and  a  moisture  filled  them, 
as  they  met  Kate's.  "  Dear  Katie,"  I  exclaimed,  "  what 
has  he  done  ?  He  is,  he  must  be,  all  that  is  good  and  noble. 
How  has  he  been  so  unfortunate  as  to  incur  your  disapproba 
tion,  my  sweet  friend  ?  " 

"  He  has  done  nothing  to  offend  me,"  replied  Kate,  "  but 
it  is  of  his  mind  I  speak.  He  lacks  stability  and  firmness. 
Flattery  has  turned  his  weak  brain,  and  he  thinks  himself 
almost  a  young  demi-god.  I  fear,  should  he  remain  in 
the  society  where  he  is  at  present,  and  have  your  fortune  at 
his  command,  ruin  would  track  his  footsteps,  and  that  he 
would  drag  both  you  and  himself  to  misery  and  poverty  in 
a  few  short  years." 

"  What  a  horrible  picture,  Kate  !  "  I  exclaimed.  "  What 
could  have  put  such  ideas  into,  your  head  concerning  poor 
Roland?" 

.    "  As  horrible  as  is  the  picture,"  replied  Kate,  "  it  is  noth- 
12* 


138  BOSTON     COMMON. 

ing  compared  to  the  reality.  That  poor  Roland,  as  you  call 
him,  is  a  man  of  strong,  deep  inclinations  and  passions,  which, 
by  his  poverty,  lie  buried  in  his  bosom,  and  are  only  waiting 
time  and  opportunity  to  arise  and  assert  their  undivided 
authority  over  the  man.  I  have,  I  think,  read  him  aright, 
and  I  pray  you,  my  sweet,  darling  Helen,  to  cast  his  image 
entirely  from  your  heart." 

"  I  cannot,  Kate,"  I  replied,  "  I  cannot !  —  I  should  be  so 
utterly  wretched,  so  miserable  !  " 

"Alas!,"  replied  Kate,  "  has  it,  then,  come  to  this?  Is 
it  inevitable  ?  Must  you,  then,  continue  to  regard  him  as 
pure  and  good  ?  " 

"  Why,  he  is  so,  Kate,  —  is  he  not  ?  May  I  again  ask, 
what  has  he  done  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  at  present,  Nellie  ;  but  I  cannot  tell  how  long 
he  may  remain  innocent." 

"  Pshaw,  Katie !  you  surely  would  not  condemn  a  man 
because  you  suppose  him  to  be  prone  to  evil,  would  you  ? 
We  are  all,  more  or  less,  inclined  that  way." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Kate,  seriously,  "  we  are,  indeed,  my  poor 
Helen;  and  our  prayers,  as  Christians,  should  be,  not  to 
resist  temptation,  but  to  be  kept  entirely  from  it.  Think  of 
this,  my  Helen,  and  pray  for  it,  and  you  will  yet  be  happy, 
although  you  do  love  so  earnestly  at  present." 

"  But  what  mean  you,  Kate,  by  my  refusing  him  ?  Is 
there  such  a  rumor  ?  " 

"  There  is,  indeed,  Helen,"  she  replied.  "  People  say  that 
Hastings  has  loved  and  been  rejected  by  Miss  Clifton, 
because  he  was  not  rich  enough  for  her." 

"People   are   very    much    mistaken,   then,"    I    replied. 


BOSTON     COMMON.  139 

"  There  has,  as  I  said  before,  not  a  word  of  love  passed 
between  us." 

"He  comes,"  whispered  Kate,  as  the  elegant  form  of 
Hastings  darkened  the  door;  "be  careful,  and  remember 
all  I  have  said  to  you." 

"  I  will  think  of  it,  Kate.     "Write  me  soon,  —  good-night." 

Kissing  Kate,  I  took  Roland's  arm,  and  stepped  into  the 
sleigh,  which  the  next  moment  glided  away  from  the  merry 
scene.  Katherine's  warning  words  sounded  like  the  knell  of 
hope  in  my  ears ;  but,  as  I  stole  a  glance  at  Roland's  fair, 
handsome  features,  my  heart  smote  me  for  listening  a 
moment  to  any  one  who  could  speak  of  him  in  a  depreciatory 
manner.  I  was  silent  for  some  ten  minutes,  and  my  thoughts 
were  very  much  like  these  :  "  If  Roland  is  to  be  my  future 
husband,  and  always  with  me,  what  a  delight  it  will  be  for 
me  to  strive  and  keep  him  in  the  right  way '.  What  a  noble 
task !  And  then  he  will  love  me  so  much,  that  it  will  be  a 
pleasure  for  him  to  do  as  I  wish,  especially  when  those 
wishes  tend  only  to  the  right ;  and  I  am  determined,  with 
God's  blessing,  that  they  shall  ever  do  so.  0  yes,  what  an 
inestimable  privilege,  to  become  the  guardian  angel  of  a  being 
so  beautiful,  so  noble  !  I  would  marry  dear  Roland,  if  only 
for  that." 

My  heart  was  full  of  love  and  joy,  —  so  full  that  it  kept 
quite  still,  and  waited  for  Roland  to  speak.  He  sat  silent  for 
some  time,  but  at  length  he  turned  to  me,  and  said : 

"  Helen,  I  have  something  to  say  to  you,  and  if  you  regard 
me  with  that  affection  which  I  have  always  supposed  you  did, 
will  you  please  give  me  your  undivided  attention,  for  a  few 
moments  ?  " 


140  BOSTON     COMMON. 

s 

My  heart  beat  with  a  sensation  of  pleasure.  "  Certainly, 
dear  Roland,"  I  replied.  It  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever 
called  him  dear  Roland,  and  he  appreciated  the  favor,  and 
gave  ine  a  kind  smile  in  return. 

"  Yes,  Helen,"  he  went  on  to  say,  "  I  have  always  looked 
upon  you  as  a  very  dear  friend,  —  are  you  not  so  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  Roland,"  I  replied,  "  I  have  ever  felt  the 
greatest  interest  in  you.  You  can  rely  wholly  upon  my 
friendship." 

"  Thank  you,  thank  you,"  he  continued.  "  I  fully  appre 
ciate  your  kindness,  and  will  proceed.  Know,  then,  Miss 
Clifton,  that  this  subject  is  of  the  greatest  importance  to  me, 
for  it  is  connected  with  the  good  or  ill  being  of  my  whole 
existence,  —  it  concerns  my  marriage  !  " 

My  heart  beat  wildly  as  Roland  took  my  unresisting  hand 
in  both  his,  and  pressed  it  fondly. 

"  Yes,  dear  Helen,"  he  continued,  "  I  love  a  young  lady 
of  your  acquaintance,  have  loved  her  for  a  long  while,  and 
am  about  to  be  married.  I  have  thought  long  and  well  of 
the  subject,  and  have  at  length  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
it  will  be  better  for  us  to  be  united.  What  say  you  to  this, 
Miss  Nellie?" 

"  I  must  know  the  lady's  name,"  I  replied,  "  before  I  give 
my  opinion.  I  am  not  going  to  yield  up  my  friend  Roland 
to  everybody,  I  can  tell  you." 

"  0,  it  is  a  goodly  name,"  he  replied,  "  and  you  shall 
know  it.  I  have  decided,  but  must  have  your  approbation 
before  going  any  further.  I  have,  I  cannot  tell  why,  a  strong 
preference,  love,  or  whatever  you  please  to  call  it,  for  you, 


BOSTON     COMMON.  141 

Helen,  which  I  have  always  felt,  but  never  before  dared  to 
avow."  • 

"And  wherefore?"  I  tremblingly  inquired. 

"  Because  of  the  difference  in  our  positions,  Miss  Clifton," 
he  replied.  "  You  are  rich ;  I  am  poor,  and  proud  into  the 
bargain." 

"That  need  make  no  difference,  Roland,"  I  answered. 
"  Have  I  ever  so  considered  it  ?  " 

"  0  no,"  he  replied,  "  you  have  ever  been  all  attention,  all 
kindness,  to  me,  and  I  have  sometimes  fancied  that  you  felt 
an  interest  somewhat  stronger  than  mere  friendship  for  the 
poor  stranger ;  but  that  is  past,"  he  continued,  sighing,  "  and 
I  am  now  engaged  to  one  whom  you  very  well  know,  —  to  my 
equal  in  rank,  fortune,  &c. ;  in  short,  to  your  friend  Mary 
Liston." 

He  paused,  while  I  sat  like  one  petrified.  My  heart  lay 
still  and  cold  in  my  bosom,  and  seemed  turning  to  stone.  I 
fixed  my  eyes  vacantly  upon  the  long  hill  that  led  to  the 
Glen,  and  which  we  had  just  begun  to  ascend.  My  companion 
was  silently  contemplating  the  stars. 

"Well,  Miss  Clifton,"  said  he,  at  length,  "you  have  not 
yet  expressed  your  approbation  of  my  choice.  I  am  waiting 
anxiously  to  hear  you  speak." 

I  attempted  to  reply,  but  the  words  were  lost,  and  my 
heart  seemed  bursting.  At  length  my  position  aroused  me. 
"  I  must  not,"  thought  I,  "  let  him  perceive  my  emotion.  He 
and  Mary  shall  not  have  my  ill-requited  love  to  comment 
upon."  Once  more  I  attempted  to  speak,  and  this  time  pride 
came  to  my  aid. 

"Mary  is  a  good  girl,  Mr.  Hastings,"  said  I,  "and — and 
quite  worthy  of  you.  May  you  both  be  happy  !  " 


142  BOSTON     COMMON. 

"  And  will  Miss  Clifton,"  he  softly  asked,  "  honor  our 
humble  nuptials  with  her  presence,  which  always  diffuses  a 
charm  wherever  she  lends  it  ?  " 

"  I  cannot,"  I  replied.  "  I  may  be  away,  or  engaged  with 
my  studies.  Rol  —  Mr.  Hastings,  I  mean,  —  I  am  going  to 
be  a  great  scholar,  you  know.  I  shall  read  and  study  now, 
all  the  time  —  if  I  do  not  die  !  "  I  added,  sinking  my  voice  into 
a  whisper,  and  feeling  a  strange  choking  sensation  in  my 
throat. 

"  You  die,  Miss  Clifton  !  "  said  Roland ;  "  that  is  a  foolish 
idea.  The  world  cannot  spare  you.  You  will  yet  live  to 
bless  some  happy  man  with  your  hand,  and  make  him  to  be 
the  envied  one  of  his  whole  sex." 

"  I  shall  never  marry,  Mr.  Hastings,"  I  replied,  "  never !  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  you  will,  and  soon,  too,"  answered  my  com 
panion. 

"  I  never  shall,"  I  almost  screamed.  "  0,  Roland !  "  I 
continued,  "  I  am  so  unhappy,  so  utterly  wretched,  —  forgive 
me,  and  do  not  hate  me !  " 

"  Why,  Helen,"  he  replied,  "  how  strangely  you  appear 
and  talk  to-night !  Is  this  the  calm,  straight-forward  Helen 
Clifton,  whom  every  one  so  much  admires  ?  What  can  be  the 
matter  with  you?  —  are  you  ill?" 

"  Here  we  are,  sir,  at  the  Glen,"  interrupted  I.  "  Excuse 
my  ebullition  of  feeling,  —  it  was  of  no  consequence,  and 
meant  nothing.  I  feel  quite  well." 

He  stopped  the  horse,  and  carefully  lifted  me  from  the 
sleigh.  "-Shall  I  ever  have  the  pleasure  of  attending  Miss 
Clifton  to  another  ball?"  he  asked,  attempting  to  kiss  my 
hand. 


BOSTON     COMMON.  143 

"  No,  sir  !  "  I  replied,  sharply,  and  striking  his  hand  vio 
lently  from  me.  "  I  am  astonished  that  you  should  ask  me 
to  go  to  a  ball  with  you,  when  you  are  engaged  to  another.  I 
am  quite  angry  about  it." 

"lam  so  distressed,"  he  replied;  "but  lean  only  hope 
for  time  and  reflection  to  be  my  advocates.  Good-night,  and 
farewell,  Helen." 

I  rushed  past  him,  and  entered  the  house,  while  he  stepped 
into  the  sleigh,  and  drove  quickly  away.  The  room  I  en 
tered  was  vacant ;  all  had  long  since  sought  their  beds,  and 
I  sank  down,  completely  exhausted  by  my  emotions,  upon  the 
carpet.  I  listened  for  the  sound  of  the  bells,  striving  to 
catch  even  their  echo,  as  they  died  away  in  the  distance. 

"  The  last  sound  I  shall  ever  hear  of  Roland  !  "  sobbed  I, 
tearing  off  the  faded  roses,  and  casting  them  to  the  floor.  "  0, 
what  shall  I  do  ?  How  am  I  to  live  through  so  many  long, 
long  years  without  him  ?  Ah,  poor  Letitia !  I  know  now 
what  it  is  to  love  in  vain." 

The  whole  world,  as  I  lay  there  upon  the  floor,  prostrated 
by  my  intense  grief,  seemed  one  vast  and  boundless  blank  to 
me,  wherein  was  no  spot  whatever  to  rest  upon.  My  studies  — 
they  would  be  nothing  without  Roland's  approbation.  My 
money  —  it  was  as  dirt  in  my  eyes ;  it  was  worse  than  nothing, 
for,  had  it  not  stood  in  my  way,  I  should,  ere  now,  have  been 
rejoicing  in  Roland's  affection.  ( 

How  long  I  lay  in  this  position  I  know  not,  but  I  was  at 
length  roused  to  consciousness  by  a  door  being  opened,  and 
some  one  coming  forward  with  a  light.  It  was  L«titia,  who 
bent  over  me,  with  the  utmost  concern  depicted  in  her  face. 

"  Why,  Helen,"  she  exclaimed,  "  how  came  you  here,  and 


144  BOSTON     COMMON.' 

what  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  I  have  been  awake  and 
watching  for  you  this  hour.  Do  arise,  please  !  How  dread 
fully  you  look  !  Your  dress  is  torn  and  disfigured,  your  hair 
damp  and  clinging,  and  your  face  and  hands  cold  as  marble." 

I  could  not  reply,  but  silently  pressed  her  hand. 

"  0  heavens  !  "  sobbed  Letitia,  "  grief  has,  I  fear,  deprived 
her  of  reason.  Do  arise,  Helen,  pray  do." 

Coinpelled,  at  length,  by  her  entreaties,  I  arose  from  my 
humble  posture,  and,  leaning  heavily  upon  her  arm,  ascended 
to  our  little  chamber.  Letitia  was  very  kind.  She  assisted 
me  in  taking  off  my  ball-room  gear,  and,  wrapping  my  night- 
robe  about  me,  laid  me  down,  as  tenderly  as  a  mother  would 
her  infant,  to  rest.  She  then  seated  herself  by  the  couch, 
and  sang  to  me,  in  a  low,  sweet  strain.  I  now  wept  silently, 
and  did  not  try  to  check  my  grief.  Letitia  said  nothing,  but 
kept  on  singing  her  low,  plaintive  melody.  It  fell  upon  my 
chafed,  irritated  spirit,  like  balm,  and  at  length,  overcome 
with  grief  and  fatigue,  I  sunk  into  a  gentle  slumber. 

It  was  morning  when  I  awoke.  My  head  felt  strangely 
dizzy,  and  my  heart  seemed  to  have  a  dead  weight  lying  upon 
it.  In  a  few  moments  my  eyes  had  fallen  upon  the  muslin 
dress  as  it  lay  over  a  chair,  and  a  full  remembrance  of  the 
joy  which  had  filled  my  heart  when  I  put  that  dress  on  the 
evening  before,  and  of  the  dreadful  agony  I  had  since  en 
dured,  came  over  me  with  an  overpowering  force,  and  my 
eyeballs  seemed  on  fire. 

I  started  wildly  from  the  couch,  and,  without  a  moment's 
consideration,  seized  the  dress  and  flowers,  and,  rolling  them 
hastily  together,  threw  them  into  the  fire,  which  was  burning 
cheerily  upon  the  grate.  I  smiled  a  sickly  smile  as  I  saw 


BOSTON    COMMON.  145 

the  element  slowly  consuming  the  precious  dress.  I  next 
bent  my  steps  towards  the  closet.  Here,  in  a  little  box, 
were  a  few  articles  that  I  had  cherished,  only  the  day  before, 
as  a  miser  cherishes  his  gold.  I  had  concealed  them  from 
every  eye  —  had  looked  at  them  every  day,  and  had  kissed 
and  wept  over  them  many  times. 

They  were  a  few  trifling  gifts  from  Roland.  A  little 
book  containing  his  name,  a  couple  of  papers  that  he  had 
sent  me  by  a  friend,  and  a  faded  bouquet,  —  faded  and 
withered,  like  my  own  hopes.  I  opened  the  box  which  con 
tained  these  once  precious  gifts,  and  scattered  them,  one  by 
one,  into  the  blazing  embers.  I  watched  them  as  they  slowly 
consumed  from  my  sight,  and  naught  was  left  but  the  ashes. 

"  Thus  perish,"  said  I,  "  every  memento  of  the  false,  the 
cruel  Roland !  —  thus  do  I  tear  him  from  his  long-cherished 
resting-place,  my  poor  heart ;  and  thus,"  continued  I,  scattering 
the  ashes  over  the  hearth,  "  do  I  destroy  every  vestige  of  my 
past  love." 

I  arose  from  my  low,  crouching  attitude,  and,  shaking  back 
the  wild,  tangled  masses  of  hair  that  lay  heavily  over  my 
brow,  gazed  at  my  face  in  the  opposite  glass.  Horror-stricken 
at  my  altered  looks,  I  wept  wild,  bitter  tears.  0,  the  agony 
of  that  hour  !  The  past  seemed  all  a  dream,  a  something 
blissful,  from  which  I  had  awakened ;  and  torture  —  even  the 
rack  —  would  have  been  preferable  to  the  vague,  sickening 
sensation  that  now  crept  over  me. 

Letitia  entered.  "  0,  Helen  !  dearest  Helen  !  "  she  ex 
claimed,  soothingly,  "  why  have  you  arisen  ?  and  what  can 
have  occurred  to  occasion  you  such  intense  grief?  How 
badly  you  look !  Let  me  comb  out  these  beautiful,  disordered 
13 


146  BOSTON     COMMON. 

curls,  and  bathe  your  poor  aching  brow  with  cool  water;  it 
will  do  you  good." 

I  submitted,  and,  sinking  into  an  easy-chair,  she  kindly 
soothed  and  .caressed  me,  until  a  better  feeling  crept  over  my 
poor  heart,  and  I  began  to  feel  calmer. 

"  Letise,"  said  I,  at  length,  catching  her  hand,  "  I  am  un 
happy,  wretched,  and  shall  always  be  so.  Rol  —  he  —  you 
know  who  I  mean  —  has  deceived  me,  —  has  sported  with 
my  feelings,  and,  after  bringing  me  to  the  very  door  of  hap 
piness,  has  turned  around  and  ejected,  spurned  me  cruelly 
therefrom,  —  has  told  me  that  he  loved  another !  " 

"  0  heavens  !  "  sobbed  my  companion. 

"  And  now,  Letise,"  I  continued,  "  never  mention  his  name 
again  ;  never  even  think  of  him  in  my  presence." 

"  But  you,  my  poor  Helen,  —  you  will  die,"  said  Letise. 

"  No,  I  shall  not!"  I  exclaimed,  fiercely.  "After  teach 
ing  me  so  severe  a  lesson  of  distrust  and  suspicion,  he  shall 
not  have  my  death  to  gloat  over.  I  will  live,  yes,  live  to 
pay  him  back  his  cruelty,"  continued  I,  rising  from  the 
chair,  and  gazing  into  the  glass.  "  These  eyes,  now  so  dim 
with  weeping,  will,  in  a  day  or  two,  resume  their  former 
lustre ;  this  brow,  now  so  heavy  and  contracted,  will  again 
be  smooth  and  unclouded ;  and  this  cheek,  which  now  bears 
the  impress  of  pale  death  upon  its  surface,  will  again  beam 
with  the  rosy  hues  of  health." 

"  0,  I  sincerely  hope  so  ! "  sobbed  poor  Letise. 

"  And,"  continued  I,  pacing  to  and  fro  the  floor,  "  I  will 
live,  and,  if  I  cannot  be  happy,  I  will  at  least  be  calm." 

"  0, 1  am  so  glad  that  you  feel  better !  "  said  my  compan 
ion.  "  I  was  nearly  frightened  to  death  at  your  appearance." 


BOSTON     COMMON.  147 

"  Not  a  word  of  this,  Letise,  to  the  family,"  said  I.  "  Tell 
them  I  am  fatigued  with  the  ride  and  ball  last  night,  and 
must  rest." 

"  I  will  —  I  will.  And  now  please  lie  down,  darling,  and 
I  will  read  or  sing  to  you." 

I  complied,  and  once  more  laid  my  aching  brow  upon  the 
pillow. 

"  How  does  your  head  feel  now  ?  "  said  Letise,  with  an 
anxious  expression  depicted  upon  her  face. 

"  As  if  it  were  lying  upon  a  crown  of  thorns,"  I  replied, 
with  a  withering  smile.  "  But  read  to  me,  Letise.  I  shall 
be  better  ;  yes,  I  will  be  better  —  well  —  in  a  day  or  two." 

That  night,  at  eleven  o'clock,  when  all  were  asleep,  I  left 
my  bed,  and,  stealing  softly  to  the  library,  opened  the  door, 
and  looked  in.  Harry  Glenmore  was  there,  and,  upon  his 
knees,  looked,  in  the  pure  moonlight,  with  his  expressive  face 
upturned,  like  some  beatified  spirit.  The  calmness  depicted 
upon  his  brow  soothed  and  tranquillized  my  heart,  and,  inspired 
with  reverence  and  admiration  for  this  noble  being,  I  involun 
tarily  sunk  upon  my  knees  at  his  side,  and  laid  my  aching 
brow  upon  the  chair.  He  bent  his  eyes  upon  me  wonder- 


"  Forgive  me,  Harry,"  I  exclaimed  "  for  thus  intruding 
upon  your  hour  of  devotion  ;  but  I  am  so  wretched,  so  utterly 
miserable,  that  I  am  ready  to  die,  and  I  felt  as  though  I 
must  seek  consolation  somewhere." 

"  You  wretched  !  —  you  miserable,  Helen  !  And  where 
fore  ?  "  he  asked  ;  "  what  harm  has  befallen  you  since  yester 
morn,  when  you  seemed  so  bright  and  happy,  that  it  was  a 
pleasure  to  look  at  you,  even  ?  " 


148  BOSTON     COMMON.    % 

"  I  cannot  tell  you,  Harry,"  I  answered.  "  Suffice  it  to 
say  that,  since  yesterday  morning,  a  deep,  a  withering  grief 
has  laid  hold  upon  me,  and  is  gnawing,  with  its  vulture  teeth, 
my  very  heart-strings  away ;  and  that  since  that  time  I  have 
lived  years,  and  that  I  must  have  relief;  and  I  come  to  you 
to  give  it  me,  or  to  direct  me  where  I  may  obtain  it." 

Harry  mused  a  moment ;  then,  looking  at  my  pale  and 
weary  face,  an  expression  of  pain  flitted  over  his  own  feat 
ures.  "  Have  you  been  at  your  devotions  lately,  Helen  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"  No,  Harry,"  answered  I,  blushing.  "  Since  you  talked 
with  me,  I  have  been  absorbed  in  my  own  selfish  feelings, 
and  am  still,  although  ashamed  to  own  it." 

He  looked  down  a  moment,  as  if  musing.  "If  I  only 
knew  your  sorrow,  Helen,"  he  said,  "  I  would  strive  to  ame 
liorate  it."  f 

"  My  grief  admits  of  no  amelioration,"  I  replied.  "  It 
lies  too  deep  for  mortal  aid  to  reach ;  but  consolation  I  must 
have,  and  immediately,  or  I  will  die." 

"  Say  not  so,  Helen,"  answered  my  cousin.  "  Do  not  talk 
of  dying,  unless  by  God's  holy  will.  Remember  that  He 
placed  you  here,  and  for  his  own  purpose  ;  and  if  he  afflicts 
you,  it  is  that  you  may  be  brought  nearer  to  him,  and  that 
you  may  seek  comfort  from  him.  Is  it  not  so?" 

"  0,  I  know  not,  Harry.  I  only  wish  I  might  be  good, 
like  you — as  free  from  passion,  from  earthliness." 

"  I  good  !  —  I  free  from  passion  !  "  said  Harry.  "  No,  in 
deed,  dear  Nellie ;  I  am  far  from  being  good.  I  have  a  fear 
ful  malady  to  contend  with,  that  is  bearing  me  down  to  the 
dark  grave,  slowly,  but  surely.  Think,  with  my  prospects 


BOSTON     COMMON.  149 

of  life,  —  friends,  fortune,  and  means  of  education  before 
me,  —  how  very  hard  it  must  be  to  die  and  leave  them  all. 
I  have  struggled,  Helen,  for  hours,  with  this  painful  malady, 
and  have  said,  when  Death  has  almost  stared  me  in  the  face, 
that  I  could  not  die.  But  I  have  at  length  conquered  my 
desire  to  live,  even  could  I  help  my  Father's  kingdom  upon 
earth.  I  know  my  days  are  limited,  that  pain  and  disease 
will  mark  the  rest  of  them,  and  that  I  shall  not  depart  with 
out  a  struggle.  All  this  earthliness,  all  this  unsubmission,  I 
have  had  to  contend  with  ;  but  I  am  now  made  perfectly 
reconciled.  I  am  willing,  nay,  glad  to  bear  pain  and  anguish, 
since  I  know  the  hand  that  inflicts  it.  I  can  lie  all  day  at 
his  feet ;  and,  with  the  most  intense  anguish  wringing  my 
brow,  and  clutching,  with  its  viper-like  fangs,  my  heart 
strings,  can  smile  and  say,  '  Thy  will  be  done.' 

"  And  how  has  this  been  brought  about,  Helen  ?  By 
struggling  daily,  almost  hourly,  low  at  the  throne  of  grace, 
for  submission,  for  freedom  from  selfishness,  for  God's  bless 
ing  ;  and,  blessed  be  his  holy  name,  I  have  obtained  it.  I 
can  now  give  up  all,  —  friends,  fortune,  rank,  health,  life  it 
self,  —  and  be  willing  to  embrace  the  dark,  cold  grave,  as  my 
dearest  friend,  so  that  I  might  be  allowed  to  do  his  will. 
I  can,  I  trust,  bend  in  entire  submission  before  him,  and 
gladly  enter  the  portals  of  the  tomb,  where  all  is  so  gloomy, 
so  dread ;  for  I  know  that  he  has  trod  it  before  me,  and  that 
it  is  his  will.  Therefore  I  submit,  and  think  it  my  greatest 
privilege  to  be  able  to  have  an  opportunity  of  doing  some 
thing  for  my  Maker." 

He  ceased;  but  the  sublime  words  were  yet  ringing  in  my 
ears,  and  my  own  troubles  seemed  sinking  into  insignificance 
13* 


150  BOSTON     COMMON. 

in  presence  of  such  a  lofty  spirit.  A  calm  was  diffusing  it 
self  over  my  heart,  and  peace  seemed  once  more  about  to 
enter  the  portals,  from  which  she  had  so  lately  been  driven 
in  affright. 

"  Dear  Harry,"  said  I,  "  I  feel  better  in  hearing  you  talk. 
I  was  so  sad,  so  full  of  grief,  when  I  entered  this  little  room ! 
but  there  seems  to  be  something  akin  to  heaven  where  you 
are.  Surely  the  angels  must  be  about  you." 

He  smiled.  "  It  is  the  angel  of  submission  in  your  own 
heart,  dear  Nellie,"  he  replied.  "  I  can  say  nothing,  do  no 
thing.  You  must  seek  for  higher  aid  than  my  weak  arm 
can  bring ;  you  must  learn  to  live  near  to  God,  to  cast  all 
your  cares  upon  him,  to  suffer  and  submit  to  whatever  he  im 
poses  upon  you ;  and  not  only  to  submit,  but  do  it  cheerfully, 
and  with  pleasure  too." 

"  It  is  so  hard,  Harry,"  said  I,  "  to  give  up  all  one's  hap 
piness  here ;  to  have  all  desire  of  living  taken  away ;  to 
feel  a  deep,  burning  revenge  in  one's  heart,  —  a  desire  to  live 
only  to  accomplish  some  wicked  deed  !  " 

"  Cast  all  thoughts  of  this  kind  entirely  from  your  mind, 
Helen,"  said  Harry,  almost  sternly.  "  They  are  unworthy 
of  you,  and  you  must  not  think  of  them  for  a  moment.  You 
have,"  he  continued,  "a  strong,  powerful  will  to  contend 
with,  but  this  very  power  will  enable  you  to  accomplish  al 
most  anything  you  choose.  Fix  it,  then,  upon  doing  the  will 
of  your  God,  of  obeying  his  commands,  of  living  daily  in 
his  presence,  and  you  will  once  more  be  happy ;  peace  will 
enter  your  breast,  and  reign  there ;  and,  with  your  prospects 
of  health,  riches,  and  long  life,  before  you,  aided  by  your 


BOSTON     COMMON.  151 

strong  and  independent  will  and  energy  of  character,  you 
will  become  a  bright  and  shining  light  in  the  world." 

He  knelt,  and,  placing  his  hands  before  his  face,  poured 
out  his  whole  soul  in  a  tribute  of  love  and  praise  to  God ; 
then,  assuming  an  humble  tone,  he  breathed  forth  a  petition 
for  the  erring  one  at  his  side,  —  that  she  might  be  brought 
by  love  to  acknowledge  the  right  of  God  over  her  existence, 
and  that  her  energies  and  will  might  be  devoted  entirely  to 
his  cause. 

At  the  conclusion,  we  arose ;  and,  as  a  partial  happiness 
seemed  to  beam  once  more  with  its  cheery  smiles  before  me, 
I  thanked  my  dear  consoler,  and,  bidding  him  good-night, 
departed.  When  I  arrived  in  my  own  room,  I  kneeled  down 
and  prayed  for  myself.  It  was  my  first  heartfelt  petition, 
and  I  poured  forth  my  whole  soul  and  its  sorrows  low  at  the 
foot  of  the  cross.  I  prayed  for  pardon  for  my  many  sins, 
for  strength  to  overcome  them,  and  for  the  will  to  do  God's 
holy  commands.  Feeling  much  relieved  by  my  petition,  I 
arose  ;  and,  resolving  to  live  nearer  to  God,  and  to  seek  him 
daily  by  prayer,  I  sought  my  couch. 

A  calm  had  now  taken  the  place  of  the  sorrow  which  had 
come  upon  me  so  suddenly,  and,  but  for  the  consolations  of 
religion,  would  have  crushed  me.  In  the  practice  of  my 
new  duties,  I  had  begun  to  realize  a  little  of  the  happiness 
that  Harry  Glenmore  had  dwelt  upon  so  often.  A  change 
had  indeed  come  over  me.  In  place  of  the  wild,  careless 
child  of  sixteen,  I  had  suddenly  expanded  into  a  woman, 
with  all  a  woman's  deep,  earnest  feelings.  I  was,  or  endeav 
ored  to  be,  cheerful;  but  a  deep,  thoughtful  expression, 
tinged  with  melancholy,  —  which  Letitia  galled  "  divinely- 


152  BOSTON     COMMON. 

interesting,"  —  had  settled  upon  my  brow,  and  gave  a  mature 
expression  to  my  whole  countenance.  I  often  indulged  in  a 
train  of  thought,  from  which  I  would  arouse  to  find  myself 
bathed  in  tears.  The  memory  of  the  loved  one,  whom  I  had 
so  sacredly  cherished  for  many  months,  I  still  fondly  dwelt 
upon,  but  the  bitter  feeling  was  softened.  I  no  longer  wished 
to  injure  or  die  for  him,  but  resolved  to  live,  that  I  might  do 
all  the  work  my  heavenly  Father  had  set  for  me,  and  that  I 
might  carry  out  his  designs  concerning  me.  So  strongly  had 
I  bent  my  mind  to  this  purpose,  that  no  one  noticed  the 
change  in  me,  save  my  friend  Letitia  and  cousin  Hurry.  He 
was  entirely  absorbed  in  his  studies,  however,  and  scarcely 
ever  left  them  even  to  converse  with  me,  unless  he  observed  a 
deeper  shade  of  sadness  than  usual  resting  upon  my  brow. 

Letitia  complained  that  I  played  no  longer  with  her  at 
gracehoops  or  battledoor ;  but  she  was,  or  seemed  to  be,  far 
too  affectionate  to  press  my  attention  upon  my  troubles  very 
often.  She  was  the  same  extravagant  creature  as  ever,  and 
as  much  in  love  with  Elwyn  Moore,  who  had  grown  moody 
and  abstracted,  and  scarcely  noticed  us,  except  at  lesson-time. 
She  still  used  the  same  language  and  gestures,  although  some 
times  checked  by  a  sarcastic  expression  from  myself,  who 
really  loved  her,  and  wished  her  to  abandon  her  foolish  habits 
and  ideas.  I  thought  I  had  perceived  germs  of  sense  and 
goodness  in  her  nature,  and  would  often  spend  hours  in  talk 
ing  to  her  of  her  romance,  and  striving  to  cure  her  of  it. 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

"  The  most  unkindest  cut  of  all  !  " 

SlIAKStEARE. 

I 

ONE  morning,  after  breakfast,  as  I  was  standing  near  the 
window,  examining  with  much  interest  a  beautiful  canary- 
bird  that  had  just  been  sent  to  the  Glen,  Harry  Glenmore 
joined  me.  He  appeared  so  pale  and  exhausted,  and  his  eyes 
wore  such  a  painful  look  of  sickness  and  suffering,  that  my 
own  instantly  filled  with  tears. 

"  Dear  Harry  !  "  I  exclaimed,  "  you  look  so  ill,  and  suffer 
so  much  !  0,  I  wish  I  had  the  power  to  soothe  your  pain.  I 
would  that  I  might  do  something  for  you.  I  fear  you  will 
die,  my  poor  Harry." 

A  sweet,  spiritual  smile  rested  upon  his  features,  as  he 
replied : 

"  Wherever  I  go,  dear  Nellie,  whatever  I  suffer,  or  when 
ever  I  die,  I  am  entirely  resigned  to  my  Maker's  will.  With 
his  blessed  face  always  in  view,  I  am  content.  Look,  Nellie," 
he  continued,  "  at  this  beautiful  bird.  It  is  at  present  chained 
to  the  narrow  bars  of  its  cage,  confined  and  hemmed  in  by 
strong  wires,  and  feeling,  no  doubt,  a  longing,  almost  beyond 
endurance,  for  the  power  of  soaring  far  away  into  yon  blue 


154  BOSTON     COMMON. 

sky.  Even  so  do  I  feel.  I  am  at  present  beating  about  the 
bars  of  my  earthly  temple,  and  my  suffering,  struggling  spirit 
would  fain  soar  away,  and  be  at  liberty  to  rove  at  its  own 
will.  The  bars  of  my  cage  are  my  pains  and  sufferings. 
This  beautiful  bird  is  like  my  spirit,  struggling  and  beating 
its  poor  head  to  get  out,  and  suffering,  in  return,  for  its  efforts 
for  liberty. 

"  But  soon,  Nellie,  a  mighty  hand  will  open  the  door  of 
my  habitation.  Then,  with  a  glad  burst  of  joyous  music  well 
ing  up  from  my  soul,  and  entrancing  my  whole  being,  I  shall 
leave  my  cage  of  suffering,  and  soar  away  upon  the  wings  of 
happiness,  to  yonder  sky.  There,  in  a  glorious  world  of  lib 
erty  and  light,  I  shall  enjoy  such  an  excess  of  bliss  as  will 
well  repay  me  for  all  the  pains  and  ills  I  have  endured  here 
in  my"  prison  of  bars  and  bolts." 

He  ceased,  but  the  expression  of  his  face  was  so  calm,  so 
heavenly,  that  I  wished  for  nothing  but  to  keep  silent,  that  I 
might  not  lose  the  faintest  echoes  of  that  voice,  whose  tones 
had  breathed  into  my  lacerated  heart  such  consolation  and 
peace.  He  said  no  more,  however ;  but,  sinking  into  an 
easy-chair,  closed  his  eyes,  and  seemed  to  be  deeply  absorbed 
in  thought. 

At  this  moment,  my  guardian,  the  Hon.  Thomas  Grlenmore, 
drove  tip  to  the  door,  and,  alighting  from  his  carriage,  entered 
the  room  where  we  were  sitting. 

"  Good-morning,  Harry,"  said  he  ;  "  good  morning,  Nell. 
I  have  come  to  carry  you  off  with  me.  I  am  going  to  Bos 
ton  in  two  weeks,  and  you  must  be  ready  to  accompany  me 
by  that  time." 


BOSTON    COMMON.  155 

I  turned  pale,  and  sunk  into  a  chair.  "  So  soon,  dear 
uncle  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Why,  yes,"  replied  he.  "  You  are  not  sorry  to  leave,  are 
you?  Most  young  ladies  would  be  delighted  with  the  pros 
pect  of  residing  in  a  large  city  for  a  couple  of  years.  But 
come,  child,  bustle  •  about.  I  am  going  right  away,  —  so 
hasten." 

I  arose,  and  in  a  shower  of  tears  fled  to  my  chamber. 
Letitia  was  alone.  I  stepped  softly  to  her  side,  and  placed 
my  arms  about  her  neck. 

"  0,  Letise,"  said  I,  "  I  am  about  to  leave  you,  and  for 
ever,  I  fear  !  " 

"  To  leave  me  !  "  almost  shrieked  Letise,  starting  wildly 
from  her  chair,  and  gazing  into  my  face ;  "  and  wherefore, 
may  I  ask  ?  " 

"  My  guardian  has  just  come  for  me,"  I  replied,  "  and  I 
must  away  and  leave  you,  dear  Letise.  Please  assist  me  in 
packing  my  trunk^will  you  ?  " 

"  0,  beloved  of  my  soul !  "  exclaimed  she,  "  my  darling, 
cherished  Helen,  what  shall  I,  what  can  I  do  without  you?  I 
cannot  exist  a  moment.  You  will  not  ask  or  expect  me  to  do 
so  unnatural  a  thing,  will  you  ?  " 

"  0,  yes,  dear  Letise,"  I  replied.  "  You  must  live  and  be 
as  cheerful  as  possible.  I  have  been  very  happy  with  you, 
Letise,  for  you  have  been  kind  and  affectionate  to  me,  and 
have  sympathized  with  me  in  my  troubles ;  and  now  I  must 
bid  you  adieu.  But  you  will  write  me  often,  Letise,  and  let 
me  know  how  things  are  going  on  here,  at  the  old  place  ;  and, 
Letise,  be  sure  and  tell  me  all  about  dear  cousin  Harry.  I 


156  BOSTON     COMMON. 

must  hear  often  of  him,  for  I  am  fearful  that  he  will  soon 
leave  this  world." 

Poor  Letise  stood  before  me  the  very  impersonation  of 
grief,  while  I  talked  so  rapidly  that  she  hardly  had  time  to 
catch  my  meaning. 

"0,  Helen,"  said  she,  at  length,  "you  love  me  not,  or  you 
could  never  leave  me  thus  suddenly,  and  when  I  am  in  afflic 
tion  too ! " 

"  I  must  leave  you,  Letise.  Do  not  suffer  your  thoughts 
to  dwell  upon  Elwyn  Moore ;  he  is  unworthy  of  so  much 
affection  —  the  insensible  man  !  Study  when  I  am  gone,  and 
endeavor  to  be  a  good  scholar  —  perhaps  a  great  one.  Write 
me  often,  and,  above  all,  pray  every  day,  dear  Letise.  Do 
not  neglect  that ;  for,  in  my  dark  hour  of  trouble,  I  should 
have  sunk  beneath  the  burden,  had  it  not  been  for  the  sweet, 
the  heavenly  consolation  of  prayer." 

Letise,  still  weeping,  assisted  me  in  packing  my  trunk,  and 
we  soon  had  all  ready.  I  gave  her  some^of  my  books  and 
clothes,  and  desired  her  to  keep  them  as  tokens  of  remem 
brance  from  me,  and  promised  that  I  never  would  forget  her. 

"  I  shall  see  you  in  a  year,  at  most,  Letise,"  said  I ;  "  for, 
wherever  you  are,  I  shall  certainly  visit  you ;  and  I  expect 
to  find  you,  at  our  next  meeting,  a  sensible,  well-educated 
woman,  with  everything  about  you  to  make  you  happy." 

We  embraced  fervently,  and,  still  clasping  each  others' 
waists,  descended  to  the  sitting-room.  I  then  went  into  the 
nursery  to  bid  Mrs.  Marsden  adieu,  and  to  kiss  the  baby, 
and  then  sought  the  school-room.  Elwyn  Moore  was  much 
affected  with  the  news  of  my  departure,  but  calmer  than  I 
expected  to  find  him.  He  too  had  long  since  found  consola- 


BOSTON     COMMON.  157 

tion  in  religion,  and  had,  under  her  divine  guidance,  schooled 
his  heart  to  meet  disappointments  with  resignation.  He  took 
my  hand,  and,  pressing  it  affectionately,  gave  me  some  good 
advice  concerning  my  studies,  and  wished  me  much  happi 
ness.  The  boys  all  crowded  around  me.  I  kissed  the  little 
ones,  shook  hands  with  the  larger  ones,  and  bade  them  all  a 
tearful  adieu. 

The  library  was  the  last  place  I  visited.  Harry  was  there, 
and  alone.  "  I  knew  you  would  coine  here,  dear  Nellie," 
said  he,  "  before  you  left  the  Glen,  and  I  preceded  you. 
Shall  we  in  this,  our  last  meeting,  perhaps  forever,  kneel  and 
implore  God's  blessing?  " 

I  knelt  beside  my  dear  cousin,  who  poured  out  his  heart  in 
a  petition  to  the  Almighty.  He  thanked  Him  for  the  peace 
He  had  hitherto  brought  me,  and  besought  Him  that  I  might 
still  be  kept  in  the  paths  of  wisdom  and  virtue,  and  that  in 
all  my  troubles  I  might  learn  to  cast  myself  upon  Him,  and 
to  submit  cheerfully  to  whatever  his  divine  will  imposed  upon 
me. 

We  arose,  and,  taking  Harry's  hand,  I  gazed  affectionately 
into  his  face.  "  Harry,"  said  I,  "  you  have  been  my  spiritual 
adviser ;  but  for  you,  I  should  still  have  been  struggling  in 
the  dark,  bewildering  paths  of  temptation  and  sin.  I  cannot 
sufficiently  thank  you  for  your  timely  aid,  but  I  shall  always 
think  of  you  with  affection ;  and  if  ever  we  meet  again,  I  trust 
that  I  shall  not  have  occasion  to  mourn  -that  I  have  strayed 
from  the  path  your  kind  arm  has  guided  me  into." 

"  Do  not  thank  me,  Nellie,"  he  replied,  "  but  thank  your 
heavenly  Father  for  guiding  you  aright.  Now,  may  Heaven's 
blessings  rest  upon  you,  and  may  you  never  meet  with  a  tempt- 
14 


158  BOSTON     COMMON. 

ation  that  you  will  be  unable  to  overcome  !  Pray  daily, 
and  read  your  Bible  often.  Now  good-by,  my  sweet  little 
cousin." 

He  kissed  my  cheek  affectionately,  and  turned  away  to 
hide  a  few  tears  with  which  he  was  struggling.  I  cast  one 
look  at  the  beautiful  brow,  breathed  one  hope  that  we  might 
meet  again,  and  softly  closed  the  library-door. 

My  guardian  was  impatiently  pacing  the  floor,  and  looking 
eagerly  for  me.  "  Come,  come,  Nell,"  said  he,  "  hasten  —  do 
not  keep  me  waiting  for  you.  I  shall  give  you  no  time  to 
weep,  —  it  is  the  best  way ;  so,  dry  up  your  eyes,  and  prepare 
for  an  entire  change  of  scenes  and  characters." 

Letitia  stood  upon  the  threshold,  and,  with  extended  arms, 
slowly,  and  with  many  ejaculations  and  sobs,  embraced  me. 
I  whispered  a  hasty  but  affectionate  good-by,  entered  the 
carriage,  and  was  soon  rapidly  whirling  away  from  a  place 
where  I  had  learned,  suffered,  and  enjoyed,  so  much. 

I  felt  very  sad  at  parting  with  the  dear  old  place.  I 
dreaded  an  encounter  again  with  the  world.  I  feared  that  I 
might  meet  Roland  ;  and  to  see  him,  or  even  hear  of  him, 
would,  I  feared,  cause  my  partially-healed  wounds  to  break 
out  afresh.  I  would  have  been  content  to  have  lived  forever 
at  the  Glen,  rather  than  to  come  again  within  the  sphere  of 
my  troubles. 

Full  of  these  sad  thoughts,  I  sat  silently  weeping,  and 
unmindful  of  the  presence  of  my  guardian.  At  length  he 
spoke.  "  Come,  come,  Nell,"  he  said,  "  dry  up  your  tears  — 
have  done  with  your  sighs,  and  listen  to  me." 

I  hastily  wiped  my  eyes,  for  entire  obedience  to  my  guard- 


BOSTON     COMMON.  159 

ian  had  always  been  a  strong  ruling  principle  of  my 
nature. 

"  How  old  are  you,  Nell  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Sixteen,  last  January,  sir,"  I  replied. 

"  So  you  are,  so  you  are,"  said  he.  "Well,  you  are  get 
ting  to  be  a  young  lady  very  fast,  and  are  no  longer  a  child, 
are  you  ?  " 

"  I  have  felt  very  differently  from  what  I  did  as  a  child, 
sir,"  I  replied,  "  for  a  long  time." 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  "  laughed  my  guardian.  "  I  suppose  you 
think  yourself  quite  aged;  —  well,  so  be  it.  You  do  look 
mature,  sure  enough,"  he  continued,  as  I  looked  up  in  sur 
prise  in  his  face ;  "  yes,  there  seems  to  be  a  change  in  your 
appearance,  lately,  and  for  the  better  too,  Nell.  Well,  my 
dear,  I  am  now  about  to  tell  you  something  of  importance. 
You  are  going  home  to  your  mother's,  to  have  your  wardrobe 
put  in  perfect  trim,  and  then  we  shall  depart  for  Boston. 
Your  aunt  Gertrude  goes  with  us,  and  we  shall  board  at  a 
hotel  for  a  couple  of  years,  or  thereabouts,  where  you  will 
constantly  attend  one  of  the  first  schools  in  the  city.  I  ex 
pect  you  to  learn  a  great  deal  in  that  time,  and  to  be  well 
accomplished  in  music,  drawing,  French,  &c.  You  have 
only  laid  the  ground-work  for  it  this  winter,  but  I  expect 
something  more  from  you  now.  You  must  strive  and  labor 
to  be  a  good  scholar,  and  ajl  will  be  as  I  wish. 

"  Your  cousin,  Gerald  Richmond,  who  has  been  visiting 
Linden,  returns  with  us  to  Boston.  He  is  a  fine  youth,  but 
noways  comparable  to  his  brother  Ernest,  who  resides  with 
his  parents  in  Boston,  and  whom  you  have  never  seen.  You 
will  be  thrown  a  deal  in  this  cousin's  society  ;  and  I  wish  it 


160  BOSTON     COMMON. 

may  "be  so,  —  you  cannot  be  too  much  with  him.  He  is 
seven  years  your  senior,  and  one  of  the  finest  specimens  of 
God's  works  that  I  ever  beheld.  Handsome,  intellectual, 
noble ;  in  short,  all  that  a  young  lady  could  ask  or  wish  for 
in  a  husband.  He  possesses  firmness,  decision  of  cRarac- 
ter,  in  a  remarkable  degree,  and  all  the  traits  of  mind  that 
ennoble  and  distinguish  a  fine  man.  And  now,  dear  Helen, 
to  the  point.  This  noble  cousin  has  been  designed,  from  your 
earliest  infancy,  by  your  family  and  friends,  as  your  husband  ! 
It  is  the  first  wish  of  my  heart,  also,  Helen,  and  I  shall  use 
my  utmost  endeavors  to  have  you  educated  and  fitted  to  be 
the  wife  of  so  noble  a  man."  , 

I  looked  in  perfect  wonder  at  my  guardian,  as  he  thus 
rattled  on.  At  his  last  words,  I  exclaimed,  "  A  husband  ! 
I  do  not  want  a  husband,  uncle  Thomas.  I  am  but  a  child, 
and  as  such  I  wish  to  remain." 

My  guardian'  laughed.  "  You  may  think  so  now,"  he  re 
plied  ;  "  but  wait  a  bit,  for  a  year  or  two  —  or  only  wait  until 
you  have  seen  the  handsome,  the  noble  Ernest  Richmond !  " 

"  But,  uncle  Thomas,"  I  continued,  "  Ernest  surely  does 
not  know  of  the  high  honor  you  all  intend  him,  does  he  ? 
Because,  if  he  does,  I  will  never  see  him  in  the  world, 
—  never !  " 

«  <  \yill '  and  '  won't '  are  improper  words  for  you  to  make 
use  of,  Helen,"  answered  he ;  "  but  I  can  inform  you  that,  as  far 
as  I  know,  he  is  entirely  ignorant  of  this  proposed  marriage, 
and  I  intend  that  he  shall  remain  so  until  after  he  has  seen 
and  become  attached  to  you.  He  is  poor  —  poor  as  a  church- 
mouse  ;  for  his  father  is  a  parsimonious  old  fellow,  and  keeps 
all  his  gold  pretty  strongly  locked  in  his  coffers  ;  but  Ernest, 


BOSTON     COMMON.  161 

with  a  true  nobleness  of  heart,  and  a  decision  which  has 
characterized  all  his  race,  and  which  is  the  glory  and  boast 
of  our  New  England  youth,  went  boldly  to  the  work,  and, 
without  flinching  or  looking  back,  has  already,  at  his  tender 
years,  won  a  reputation  and  fame  that  not  many  in  like  cir 
cumstances  can  boast  of.  I  think  that  Ernest,  with  his 
principles  and  habits,  deserves  just  such  a  fortune  as  you 
possess,  and  also  a  nice  little  body  like  yoursejf  for  a  wife." 

"  I  am  not  a  nice  little  body,  uncle  Thomas,"  exclaimed  I, 
petulantly ;  "  and  if  my  cousin  Ernest  wishes  for  my  fortune, 
he  can  have  it,  and  welcome,  but  not  myself  with  it." 

Uncle  Thomas  looked  at  me  in  surprise.  "  You  are  more 
of  a  child,  Nell,  after  all,  than  I  took  you  to  be,"  said  he. 
"  I  suppose  a  large  paper  of  sweetmeats  would  please  you 
much  more  than  a  fine  young  husband.  However,  I  will  not 
press  the  matter  now,  but  will  wait  a  while.  I  wish  you  to 
think  well  of  this  marriage,  and  to  regard  it  as  a  fixed  thing, 
for  that  it  is  so  you  may  rest  assured." 

I  did  not  reply,  but,  turning  away  my  head,  mused  a  while 
over  what  my  uncle  had  just  said  to  me.  I  was  astonished 
that  a  marriage  with  my  cousin  Ernest,  of  whom  I  had 
always  heard  a  great  deal,  should  have  been  projected  so  long 
by  my  family  ;  and  still  more  astonished  that  I  should  have 
remained  in  ignorance  of  it  thus  far.  But  to  marry  him 
was  out  of  the  question.  The  time,  I  thought,  for  that,  had 
gone  by,  and  my  heart  had  scarcely  closed  over  the  grave  of 
my  first  affection.  I  could  not  think  of  receiving  another 
into  its  hallowed  recesses.  What  my  guardian  had  said  to 
me  concerning  my  cousin  did  not  trouble  me  much,  for  I  rea 
soned  thus  :  "  If  my  cousin  Ernest  is  of  that  noble  character 
14* 


162  BOSTON     COMMON. 

attributed  to  him,  he  will  refuse  to  accept  me  unwillingly ; 
therefore  I  have  nothing  to  fear."  I  did  not  think  or  trouble 
myself  concerning  the  disappointment  my  resolution  would 
occasion  my  family,  for  I  did  not  even  guess  how  much  they 
had  set  their  hearts  upon  my  marrying  Ernest  Kichmond. 

We  soon  arrived  at  home,  and  I  was  joyfully  received  by 
my  family.  During  the  two  weeks  of  my  sojourn  with  them, 
they  vied  with  each  other  in  doing  me  all  the  kindness  in 
their  power.  There  was  but  one  thing  that  troubled  me.  I 
noticed  that  they  were  always  talking  of  Ernest  whenever 
I  was  present,  and  such  a  catalogue  of  virtues  I  never  heard 
attributed  to  mortal  man  before.  I  became  quite  weary  of 
hearing  his  praises  echoed  from  morning  till  night,  and  said, 
one  day,  to  my  parents,  in  a  pet, 

"  Do  have  done  talking  of  Ernest !  I  know  all  about  him 
now,  and  I  also  know  that  you  all  wish  me  to  marry  him, 
when  I  am  of  a  proper  age ;  but,  if  you  talk  of  him  so  con 
stantly,  I  shall  expect  wonderful  things  of  him,  and  shall  be 
quite  disappointed  when  I  see  him,  for  he  cannot  possibly  be 
so  very  perfect  as  represented." 

This  little  speech,  which  I  got  off  with  some  spirit,  had  the 
effect  of  silencing  my  family,  and  Ernest's  name  was  scarcely 
mentioned  from  that  time  until  I  left  home,  which  was  soon 
afterwards. 

I  had  visited  Katherine  Merton  several  times  since  my 
return  from  the  Glen,  and  we  had  once  more  renewed  the 
affectionate  intercourse  of  our  early  days.  By  tacit  agree 
ment,  the  name  of  Roland  Hastings  was  never  mentioned 
between  us.  Kate  noticed  that  "  a  change  had  come  o'er  the 
spirit  of  my  dream,"  and,  attributing  it  to  the  right  cause, 


BOSTON      COMMON.  163 

j^        •  \ 

never  spoke  of  it  to  me.  I  told  her,  one  day,  of  the  projected 
alliance  between  my  cousin  and  myself,  and  she  replied,  rather 
seriously,  thus : 

"As  a  general  thing,  I  think,  early  matches,  made  by 
families,  and  without  the  consent  of  the  parties,  wrong,  and 
even  wicked  transactions ;  but,  if  Ernest  Richmond  is  what 
I  have  always  heard  him  to  be,  you  could  not  possibly  do 
better  than  to  marry  him." 

On  the  last  day  of  my  remaining  at  home,  Kate  proposed 
that,  as  it  was  a  fine  afternoon,  we  should  visit  some  of  our 
old  haunts  together.  Accordingly,  we  donned  our  sun-bonnets, 
and  sauntered  forth.  We  bent  our  steps  immediately  to  old 
"  Granite  Bluff,"  which  we  hastily  ascended,  for  we  were 
anxious  to  seat  ourselves  once  more  upon  this  weather-beaten 
cliff. 

The  air  was  fine  and  soft,  the  sky  blue,  and  the  trees  were 
just  robing  themselves  in  their  summer  mantles.  The  sides 
of  the  old  rock  were  covered  with  moss,  through  which 
many  a  tender  and  delicate  blossom  was  endeavoring  to  find 
its  way. 

Kate  and  myself  sought  our  favorite  seat,  which  was  in 
the  highest  part  of  the  rock.  It  was  a  little  aperture,  lined 
with  moss,  just  large  enough  to  admit  two,  and  overhanging 
the  dizzy  precipice.  Here  we  could  behold  the  whole  village, 
with  its  spires,  chimneys,  and  masts,  and  a  part  of  the  coun 
try,  for  several  miles  around.  Many  a  happy  hour  had 
we  spent  together  in  this  airy  seat ;  and  now  it  was  with  sad 
hearts  tfcat  we  sat,  with  arms  twined  about  each  other's 
waists,  gazing  thoughtfully  down  the  dizzy  height. 

"  How  much  I  shall  miss  you,  Helen  !  "  said  Kate.     "  I 


164  BOSTON     COMMON. 

shall  not  venture  to  come  here  without  you ;  for,  in  your 
absence,  this  cliff,  with  all  its  beauty,  will  have  lost  its 
charms  for  me." 

"And  I,  dearest  Katherine,"  I  replied,  "I  shall  be  lost 
without  you.  No  other  person  has  such  power  over  me  as 
yourself.  You  can  guide,  teach,  and  direct  me;  and,  without 
your  good  counsel,  I  fear  that  I  shall  always  be  getting  into 
all  sorts  of  trouble." 

"I  trust  not,  dear  Helen,"  replied  my  friend.  "  You  have 
a  pretty  good  share  of  mind  yourself,  and,  with  the  Bible  for 
your  guide,  and  the  blessing  of  God,  which  you  daily  seek, 
I  shall  not  be  afraid  to  trust  you  in  the  great  world.  But 
you  must  guard  your  heart  well,  and  see  that  no  wickedness 
enters  therein,  and  keep  your  conscience  void  of  offence.  All 
will  then  be  right  with  you." 

"  I  shall  write  you  every  week,"  said  I ;  "  and  mind  that 
your  answers  are  long  ones ;  be  sure  that  you  put  plenty  of 
affection  in  them  for  your  absent  friend.  Remember  that 
I  expect  and  exact  a  deal  of  love  from  you,  Katie." 

"  I  will  remember  all  you  have  said,"  answered  Kate,  "  and 
everything  shall  be  as  you  wish." 

"  Hark !  "  said  I,  a  few  moments  afterwards,  "  I  hear  voices, 
and  they  seem  to  be  beneath  us." 

We  listened  a  moment,  and  then,  as  a  well-known  tone 
fell  upon  my  ear,  I  started  and  turned  pale.  Casting  my 
eyes  down  the  cliff,  I  beheld  a  sight  that  set  all  my  long-buried 
wounds  bleeding  afresh,  and  almost  defied  even  religion  her 
self  to  console  me.  ^ 

The  light,  elegant  figure  of  Roland  Hastings  stood  near  a 


BOSTON     COMMON.  165 

tree,  at  whose  foot  reclined  Mary  Listen !  His  head  was 
bare,  and  the  rich  curls  were  floating  dreamily  over  the 
broad,  white  brow.  His  large  dark  eyes  were  attentively 
viewing  a  little  chaplet  of  moss  and  vines  which  he  had 
woven,  and  was  just  about  to  throw  over  the  rich  black  tresses 
of  his  companion.  She  was  gazing  at  him  so  tenderly,  with  her 
expressive  eyes,  that  you  could  read  love,  adoration,  almost 
worship,  in  the  glance.*  He  spoke,  and  the  words,  in  that 
well-known  voice,  thrilled  through  my  heart. 

"  Permit  me,  dearest  Mary,  to  place  this  little  coronal 
upon  your  fair  brow,  as  an  emblem  of  our  nuptial  wreath." 

I  heard  no  more.  The  figures  disappeared,  —  the  whole 
mountain  seemed  sinking  into  one  black  abyss,  as  I  buried 
my  face  in  Katherine's  bosom,  and  wept  aloud. 

a  Let  us  away,  my  Helen,"  she  whispered,  "  from  this 
spot.  I  will  take  care  of  you ;  lean  upon  me,  dearest. 
There,  you  are  better,  are  you  not  ?  "  she  continued,  as  she 
untied  my  bonnet,  and  fanned  me  with  it. 

"  0,  yes,  Katie,"  I  replied,  "I  am  better.  I  thought  — 
I  hoped  that  I  was  entirely  cured ;  but  my  heavenly  Father 
has  other  trials  yet  in  store  for  me." 

"Submit  to  th^em  cheerfully,"  she  replied,  "and  all  will 
yet  be  well.  I  anticipate  great  things  for  you,  my  sweet 
Helen,  in  the  next  two  years,  should  yAr  life  be  spared. 
You  are  very  young  yet,  and  these  youthful  sorrows  will 
vanish,  as  you  grow  older,  I  trust.  But  we  will  return 
home,  for  you  are  not  well,  I  fear.  You  have  a  long  journey 
before  you  to-morrow,  and  need  rest." 

We  slowly  descended  the  mountain,  and  by  a  little  wind- 


166  BOSTON     COMMON. 

ing  path  reached  the  "  Homestead,"  just  as  the  family 
were  eating  supper.  I  immediately  retired  to  my  cham 
ber,  and  endeavored  to  school  my  heart  into  entire  sub 
mission  to  my  Maker's  will ;  for  I  had  experienced  its 
rebellious  emotions,  and  wished  them  entirely  subdued. 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 


' •  Of  fresh  and  stainless  youth, 

In  voices  well  divulged;  free,  learned,  and  valiant, 
And  in  the  shape  of  nature  a  gracious  person." 


I  SHALL  pass  over  the  parting  with  ray  friends ;  my  long 
journey  with  my  uncle,  aunt,  and  cousin,  Gerald  Richmond ; 
also,  my  delight  when  we  had  really  arrived  in  the  great  city, 
which  I  had  not  visited  since  a  child,  and  but  dimly  remem 
bered. 

My  guardian  immediately  took  lodgings  at* a  fashionable 
hotel,  and  ensconsing  me  in  a  nice  little  room,  well  furnished 
with  every  article  for  comfort  and  use,  bade  me  dress  as 
soon  as  possible  for  dinner.  I  opened  my  trunks,  pulled  over 
my  dresses,  and  at  length  selected  a  light  blue  thibet,  as  it 
was  yet  quite  early  in  April.  After  I  was  dressed,  I 
descended  to  the  parlor,  and,  seating  myself  upon  a  sofa,  took 
up  a  paper.  Presently  Gerald  Richmond  entered. 

"  Cousin  Nell,"  said  he,  "  my  brother  Ernest  is  below,  and 
desires  to  see  you.  Shall  I  tell  him  to  come  up  ?  " 

I  looked  up,  and,  in  spite  of  my  indifference,  the  blood 
rushed  to  my  neck  aud  brow ;  but  I  stammered  out, 


168  BOSTON     COMMON. 

"  Certainly,  Gerald,  I  shall  be  quite  happy  to  see  your 
brother." 

He  departed,  and  I  waited  in  trembling,  but  with  an  ap 
pearance  of  the  utmost  nonchalance,  for  the  arrival  of  this 
prodigy,  this  eighth  wonder  of  the  world. 

"  I  mean  to  appear,"  thought  I,  "  to  as  much  disadvantage 
as  possible ;  for  I  am  determined  that  he  shall  not  fall  in  love 
with  me,  and  there  is  no  danger  on  my  part.  Ha !  he 
comes  —  " 

I  again  took  up  the  paper,  and  was  apparently  lost  in  its 
columns,  when  the  gentlemen  entered.  I  only  half  looked  up, 
as  I  heard  Gerald  say,  "  Here,  Ernest,  is  our  little  cousin 
Helen,  of  whom  you  have  heard  me  so  often  speak." 

"  Cousin  Helen  is  well,  I  trust,"  said  a  deep,  richly-keyed 
voice,  in  a  tone  that  needed  not  to  be  repeated. 

I  glanced  at  this  paragon  of  perfection.  He  was  standing 
about  ten  feet  from  me,  in  a  graceful  attitude.  The  first 
thing  I  encountered  was  a  pair  of  large  dark-gray  eyes,  very 
much  like  my  own,  but  far  more  expressive.  There  was  a 
coldness  in  them,  however,  that  half  shocked  my  tender  heart, 
and  I  dropped  my  own  instantly,  as  I  replied,  in  a  low  tone, 
that  I  was  well,  quite  well,  and  placed  a  chair  for  him  near 
my  sofa. 

He  took  it  with  a  quiet  grace,  and  commenced  a  conversa 
tion  about  my  journey,  studies,  &c.,  that  did  not  interest  me 
much.  He  did  not  allow  my  attention  to  flag  for  a  moment, 
however,  but  made  me  talk,  whether  I  would  or  no. 

"  Helen,"  said  he,  at  length,  "  they  have  always  said  that 
there  was  a  striking  resemblance  between  you  and  my  un- 


BOSTON     COMMON.  169 

worthy  self.  Let 's  look  into  the  mirror  together,  and  judge 
for  ourselves." 

"  That  can  hardly  be,  cousin  Ernest,"  said  I ;  "  for  I  have 
always  been  told  that  you  were  exceedingly  handsome,  while 
I  am,  as  you  see,  quite  plain." 

He  smiled,  and  replied,  as  we  stood  looking  into  the  mirror 
together,  "  Not  so  plain,  Helen,  as  you  imagine,  though 
still  quite  plain.  You  have  a  very  interesting  face,  although 
it  needs  a  few  more  years  to  give  it  light  and  shade." 

I  stood  attentively  regarding  his  face,  —  one  of  the  most 
interesting  I  had  ever  beheld.  A  broad,  lofty  brow,  with 
intellect  stamped  plainly  upon  its  surface  ;  a  pair  of  very  ex 
pressive  dark-gray  eyes,  as  I  said  before,  shaded  by  long  lashes, 
and  over-arched  by  heavy  eyebrows.  Upon  the  classically- 
shaped  head,  and  around  the  temples,  clustered  thick  golden- 
brown  curls,  of  the  same  shade  as  my  own  floating  locks.  A 
mouth,  indicating  a  proud,  domineering  will,  with  so  much  of 
firmness  within  its  closed  portals  that  I  almost  trembled  as 
I  gazed,  for  I  saw  "  tyrant "  written  there,  plain  enough  to 
read.  Glancing  from  his  face  to  his  figure,  I  beheld  a  tall, 
elegantly-made  man,  with  symmetry  and  strength  in  every 
linab  and  motion. 

"  Well,  Helen,"  said  he,  at  length,  "  are  we  much  alike?" 

"  A  very  little,"  I  replied.  "  The  eyes  are  like  mine,  with 
a  shade  or  two  of  variation,  and  the  hair  is  the  same  color ; 
but  the  mouth — " 

"  Is  precisely  like  your  own,  Helen,"  he  interrupted. 

"  I  trust  not,"  I  replied. 

"  You  are  complimentary,  Helen,"  he  answered ;  "  but  it 
15 


170  BOSTON     COMMON. 

is   so,  nevertheless.     Have   you   never  been  told   that  you 
have  a  strong,  ungovernable  will  and  temper,  of  your  own  ?  " 

"I  have,  indeed,  been  told  of  it  a  hundred  times,"  I  re 
plied. 

"  It  is  plainly  written  upon  your  mouth,"  he  continued  ; 
"  therefore,  as  I  rejoice  in  the  same  inestimable  gifts,  we  can 
not  fail  of  resembling  each  other.  Please  look  again,  and 
tell  me  if  you  are  not  of  my  opinion." 

I  did  as  requested,  and  this  time  was  much  struck  with  the 
resemblance.  He  was  larger,  darker,  fiercer-looking,  but  still 
we  were  exceedingly  alike.  • 

"  You  are  satisfied,  now,"  he  asked,  in  a  low,  quiet  tone, 
that  expected.and  admitted  of  no  contradiction. 

"  I  am,"  'I  replied,  "  and  perfectly." 

He  gave  me  a  singular  look,  and  in  the  smile  which  accom 
panied  it  I  read  power,  triumph,  or  something  of  the  sort. 
I  did  not  like  him,  however,  or  his  smile  either ;  but  just  then 
we  were  summoned  to  dinner,  and  my  uncle  took  occasion  to 
ask  me  how  I  liked  Ernest. 

"  I  don't  like  him  at  all,  uncle,"  I  replied.  "  He  seems 
cold,  selfish,  and  proud." 

"  You  never  were  more  in  the  wrong,  Helen,"  he  replied. 
"  Under  that  exterior  he  carries  as  warm  a  heart  as  ever  beat' 
in  man's  breast.  Try  and  cultivate  his  love,  and  all  will  be  as 
it  should  be  between  you.  He  likes  you  already,  exceedingly  ; 
and  you  must  be  cold-hearted,  indeed,  to  regard  him  in  any 
other  light  than  that  of  a  very  warm  friend." 

In  the  evening,  as  I  was  standing  by  the  large  parlor  win 
dow,  musing,  I  suddenly  heard  a  step  approaching  me. 


BOSTON     COMMON.  171 

Looking  up,  I  again  beheld  my  cousin  Ernest.  He  smiled, 
as  he  took  my  hand,  and  conveyed  it  to  his  lips. 

"  You  are  sad,  to-night,  Helen,"  said  he,  softly.  "  Can  it 
be  that  you  are  homesick  already  ?  "  . , 

"  Not  exactly,"  I  replied.  "  I  am  apt  to  be  pensive,  at 
times." 

"  A  young  girl  of  sixteen,"  he  rejoined,  "  has  no  right  to 
be  either  sad  or  pensive.  It  is  considered,  by  older  and 
graver  heads  than  ours,  to  be  the  happiest,  most  careless 
period  in  life,  when  the  heart  beholds  nothing  but  joy  in  the 
future.  You  must  be  cheerful,  or  we  shall  be  led  to  suppose 
that  you  have  left  some  favored  swain  in  your  native  hamlet, 
and  that  you  are  pining  for  love  of  him." 

I  blushed,  and  cast  my  eyes  upon  the  carpet,  while  he 
paused  for  a  reply.  Not  getting  one,  however,  he  took  my 
unresisting  hand,  and  led  me  to  the  sofa. 

"  Listen,  Helen,"  said  he,  "  while  .1  inform  you  of  some 
thing  that  you  are  probably  not  aware  of.  Do  you  know 
that  the  good  people,  our  parents,  have  decided  upon  marry 
ing  us  two  together?" 

I  blushed  still  deeper,  and  hung  my  head  bashfully  down. 
"  Yes,  Ernest,  I  do  know  it,"  I  replied.  "  I  was  informed  of 
it  the  week  that  I  left  St.  Thomas'  Glen." 

He  smiled.  "  And  what  think  you  of  such  a  match,  my 
little  Helen  ?  " 

1  looked  at  him  a  second;  then,  encouraged  by  the  smile 
I  saw  playing  around  that  strange  mouth,  laughed  aloud. 

"  Preposterous  !  "*  said  he.  "  So  I  think ;  and  the  more  they 
try  to  marry  us  together,  the  more  we  won't  let  them,  will  we, 
Nellie  ?  " 


172  BOSTON     COMMON. 

"  0,  Ernest,"  said  I,  "  I  am  so  glad,  so  happy,  to  hear  you 
epeak  in  that  manner !  I  feel  as  if  a  heavy  restraint  was 
taken  from  me.  I  can  now  speak  and  act  with  freedom,  for 
you  think  just  as  I  do." 

He  smiled  a  cold,  desolate  smile,  as  he  glanced  at  my  ear 
nest  face.  "  And  so,  Helen,"  said  he,  "  you  can  give  up  tho 
1  handsome  intellectual  cousin '  you  have  heard  so  much  about, 
without  a  pang,  can  you?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  answered,  "  I  can  very  easily  give  him  up  as  a 
husband,  but  I  should  be  quite  happy  to  retain  him  as  a 
friend  and  cousin." 

He  bowed.  "  Well,  Helen,  so  be  it,"  he  answered.  "  I 
•will  be  your  friend  —  cousin  I  am  already ;  and  as  our  uncle 
Glenmore  has  decided  that  we  are  to  be  constantly  thrown 
together,  you  will  not  object  to  my  attentions,  I  suppose?  " 

"  Of  course  not,  Ernest,"  I  replied.  "  I  will  not  walk  or 
talk  with  any  other  young  gentleman,  while  I  am  here,  but 
yourself." 

"I  will  be  a  most  devoted  cousin,"  he  replied.  "I  will 
do  all  and  everything  for  your  happiness.  Your  wishes  will 
only  have  to  be  expressed,  in  order  to  be  obeyed ;  but  at 
some  future  time,  —  perhaps,  if  we  live,  in  one  year  from  this 
night,  —  I  shall  walk  in  here,  and  claim  my  reward.  Say, 
shall  it  be  mine?" 

"What  reward,  cousin  Ernest?"  I  asked,  feeling  very 
much  as  Faust  did  at  the  expected  visit  of  Mephistophiles. 

"A  reward  th'at  I  will  then  tell  you  of,"  he  replied. 
"Shall  I  receive  it?" 

"  Certainly,"  I  answered.     "  It  would  be  a  species  of 


BOSTON     COMMON.  173 

fraud,  to  cheat  so  devoted  a  cousin  out  of  his  pay.  What 
shall  it  be?" 

He  looked  at  me  a  moment,  while  a  singular  light  played 
in  his  expressive  gray  eyes.  Then,  taking  a  slip  of  paper 
from  his  pocket-book,  he  wrote  a  few  words  upon  it,  and 
handed  it  to  me.  It  read  as  follows  : 

"  On  Thursday  evening,  April  the  10th,  18 — ,  I  promised 
to  pay  Ernest  Richmond  whatever  reward  he  chose  to  de 
mand  for  the  faithful  performance  of  sundry  duties.  The 
reward  to  be  given  at  the  same  month,  day,  and  hour,  next 
year,  on  which  this  is  written." 

I  looked  at  the  paper  a  moment,  and  then  at  Ernest's  face. 
It  was  calm,  perfectly  so,  and  a  smile  played  about  the  closed 
mouth. 

"  What  am  I  to  do  with  this  ?  "  said  I. 

"  Sign  your  name  at  the  bottom,  if  you  please,"  he  re 
plied. 

"  Must  I  ? — am  I  obliged  to  do  this  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Certainly  not,  if  you  do  not  wish  to,"  he  replied. 

"  I  rather  like  the  idea,"  said  I.  "  It  is  a  novel  one,  and 
I  will  sign  the  paper." 

I  took  my  pencil,  and  wrote  "  Helen  Clifton,"  in  a  bold, 
plain  hand,  at  the  bottom  of  the  writing.  I  then  pushed  the 
paper  into  Ernest's  hand.  He  grasped  it  eagerly,  read  the 
name  through  several  times,  and  then,  with  a  look  of  com 
plete  triumph,  placed  it  in  his  pocket-book. 

"  I  have  not  signed  my  death-warrant,  have  I,  Ernest  ?  " 
I  asked. 

"  I  hope  not  quite  so  bad  as  that,"  he  replied,-  "  although 
you  may  so  consider  it.  You  will  see  this  paper  again  next 
15* 


174  BOSTON     COMMON. 

year,  Helen;  and,  remember,  if  I  have  been  faithful,  I  shall 
claim  the  promised  reward.  Now,  Nellie,"  said  he,  rising 
soon  after,  "  please  grant  me  a  cousin's  privilege,  —  a  kiss." 

"No,  Ernest,"  I  replied,  "I  don't  wish  you  to  kiss  me; 
I  don't  like  to  be  kissed." 

"  Very  well,"  he  replied,  regarding  me  attentively  for  a 
moment ;  "  I  admire  your  candor,  and  will  not  dispute  your 
wishes.  Good-night." 

"  Good-night,"  I  replied,  as  I  watched  his  elegant  figure 
out  of  the  room ;  and  then  flung  myself  upon  the  sofa,  and 
wept. 

"  I  do  not  like  Ernest,"  I  thought.  "  He  is  cold,  deep,  and 
plotting.  I  feel,  when  with  him,  as  though  he  were  Lucifer, 
trying  to  make  a  contract  for  my  soul.  I  wonder  what  uncle 
Glenmore  can  mean  by  bringing  us  together  in  this  manner. 
I  shall  take  very  little  notice  of  him,  however,  and  in  my 
daily  studies  may  forget  him  entirely." 

Full  of  these  thoughts,  I  sought  my  aunt  Gertrude,  to  bid 
her  good-night ;  and  then,  weary  with  the  events  of  the  day, 
retired  early  to  my  own  couch. 


CHAPTER    XIX. 

"  To  one  who  looked  from  upper  air, 
O'er  all  th'  enchanted  region  there, 
How  beauteous  must  have  been  the  glow, 
The  life,  the  sparkling,  from  below  !  " 

THOMAS  MOORB. 

ONE  week  was  spent  by  my  guardian  in  showing  me  the 
wonders  of  a  city  life.  I  was,  of  course,  highly  delighted 
with  everything  I  saw,  for  novelty  always  possesses  a  charm 
for  the  youthful  mind.  At  the  end  of  the  week  my  school 
duties  commenced ;  and  in  the  new  acquaintances  I  found,  and 
in  my  daily  studies,  I  half  forgot  Ernest,  and  the  singular 
influence  he  had  begun  to  exert  over  me. 

Time  went  on.  My  life  was  an  unvarying  routine  of  study, 
drawing,  music,  &c.  My  days  passed  in  the  usual  manner. 
I  was  never  allowed  to  enter  a  theatre,  museum,  or  ball 
room.  My  mornings,  until  two  o'clock,  were  devoted  to 
study ;  then  came  dinner,  and  several  hours  of  practice.  The 
evenings  were  spent  in  aunt  Glenmore's  room,  where  Ernest 
generally  contrived  to  make  one  of  the  party.  We  played 
chess,  games  at  Shakspeare,  or  solved  problems  in  history  and 
astronomy.  Occasionally  I  would  assist  my  aunt  in  sewing, 
while  Ernest  played  backgammon  with  uncle  Thomas. 


176  BOSTON    COMMON. 

I  was  much  surprised  at  the  change  in  Ernest.  He  was 
always  agreeable,  always  cheerful,  —  never  troubled  me  with 
his  commands  or  comments,  but  was  ever  ready  to  assist  me 
in  an  intricate  sum  or  difficult  exercise.  *He  would  sit  pa 
tiently  by  my  side,  and  carefully  unwind  the  greatest  enigma ; 
tell  me  everything  I  wanted  to  know,  and  was  ever  attentive 
and  obliging  to  my  wishes.  I  had  become  exceedingly  at 
tached  to  Ernest,  and  loved  him  like  a  dear  brother.  I  was 
very  happy  in  his  society,  and  often  wondered  if  this  intelli 
gent,  good-natured,  gentle  being,  who  humored  my  caprices, 
gratified  my  wishes,  and  puzzled  out  my  sums,  was  the  cold, 
unbending  tyrant  I  had  at  first  imagined  him  to  be. 

Every  pleasant  evening,  during  the  summer,  I  was  allowed 
to  walk  with  Ernest.  We  generally  bent  our  steps  towards 
Boston  Common.  Here,  in  this  great  temple  of  nature  and 
art,  I  have  sat  for  hours  with  Ernest  by  my  side,  or  stood 
with  him  upon  the  borders  of  the  beautiful  pond,  beneath  the 
shadows  of  the  trees,  listening  to  the  deep,  rich  music  of  his 
voice,  as  it  poured  forth  the  emotions  of  his  soul.  I  had 
begun  to  love  these  walks  very  dearly,  and  to  long  for  their 
coming.  They  pleased  Ernest,  also,  and  I  could  not  but  per 
ceive  that  he  was  always  calm  and  happy  when  in  my  com 
pany. 

The  reader  must  not  suppose  that  I  had  forgotten  Roland, 
all  this  time.  No ;  his  image  had  taken  too  firm  a  hold  of 
my  heart  to  be  loosened  thus  easily.  Often  did  I  sit  in  my 
lonely  room  and  dream  of  him  for  hours  together.  Often 
did  I  leave  Ernest's  arm,  when  walking  with  him  upon  the 
borders  of  the  little  pond,  and,  gazing  down  into  its  clear 
depths,  drop  a  tear  over  my  past  love.  I  never  breathed  his 


BOSTON     COMMON.  177 

name,  however,  even  to  myself;  but  prayed  my  God  daily 
and  hourly  to  root  his  image  entirely  from  my  heart,  and  to 
make  me  submissive  to  His  will. 

My  feelings,  and  the  circumstances  in  which  I  was  placed, 
cannot  be  better  described  than  by  reading  the  following 
letter,  which  I  indited  to  my  friend  Katherine  Merton,  two 
or  three  months  after  my  arrival  in  this  city  of  notions. 

"  Boston,  July  6th,  18 — . 
"  DEAREST  KATE  : 

"I  can  never  have  done  describing  to  you  all  the  wonders 
of  a  city  life.  I  wish  I  could  express  to  you  my  emotions 
regarding  it,  and  the  pleasure  I  find  in  everything  here.  All 
is  so  new,  so  delightful !  So  many  pleasant  acquaintances, — 
such  beautiful  places  to  visit,  —  such  grand  houses,  —  such 
churches,  —  such  delightful  gardens  and  parks !  0,  I  can 
never  do  justice  to  all  these  fine  places,  and  will  not,  there 
fore,  attempt  a  description  of  them. 

"  I  have  often  promised  that  I  would  tell  you  of  all  the 
places  of  interest  here ;  but  they  ai^  so  many,  and  so  much 
could  be  said  of  them,  that  my  poor  pen  would  fail  in  giving 
you  the  smallest  idea.  I  will  wait  until  I  see  you,  Kitty, 
and  then  I  will  talk  to  you  all  day  about  Boston.  Mean 
time,  I  will  just  speak  of  a  few  of  the  principal  spots  that  I 
have  visited. 

"  You  know,  Kate,  how  much  you  and  I  have  read,  talked, 
and  dreamed,  of  dear  old  Boston.  It  was  always  connected, 
in  our  simple  minds,  with  all  that  was  noble,  grand,  or  mag 
nificent.  It  was  the  home  of  many  of  our  great  forefathers, 
and,  consequently,  the  scene  of  many  historical  events  con- 


178  BOSTON    COMMON. 

nected  with  our  liberty  and  independence.  Here  can  be  seen 
Dorchester  Heights,  whose  turf  has  been  hallowed  by  the 
footsteps  of  our  Washington ;  and  the  glorious  Bunker  Hill 
Monument,  that  forever  points  its  finger  towards  the  great 
city. 

"  But  I  might  go  on  all  day  enumerating  the  places  of 
interest  about  me.  I  will  forbear,  however,  and  leave  you  to 
judge  what  must  have  been  my  emotions  when  standing  upon 
the  very  spots  we  have  so  often  read  of,  and  longed  to  see  so 
much.  To  say  that  I  was  pleased,  would  be  a  very  feeble 
description  of  my  sensations.  I  was  delighted,  satisfied,  and 
proud,  that  our  glorious  Union  could  boast  of  such  a  place, — 
such  a  city,  —  where  the  arts  and  sciences  flourish  in  so  high 
a  degree,  and  where  education  takes  each  and  every  one, 
rich  and  poor,  high  and  low,  learned  and  ignorant,  by  the 
hand,  and  leads  them,  if  they  will,  to  the  temple  of  fame. 

"  Boston  abounds  in  many  noble  specimens  of  architecture. 
Here,  at  every  turn,  magnificent  churches,  halls,  and  public 
buildings  of  every  kind,  meet  your  eye ;  and  to  myself,  who 
never  beheld  anything  better  than  the  spire  of  our  dear  old 
church  at  Linden,  all  these  things  would,  of  course,  appear  to 
be  on  a  very  grand  scale. 

"  The  first  place  of  interest  that  I  visited  here  was  that  gray 
old  building,  venerable  with  age,  and  hallowed  with  many 
sacred  memories,  the  'Cradle  of  Liberty,'  —  Faneuil  Hall. 
There  was  a  grand  fair  here  in  April,  and  I  was,  of  course, 
allowed  to  go.  I  can  give  you  no  idea  of  the  beautiful  arti 
cles  that  everywhere  met  my  view.  There  were  tables  all 
over  the  hall,  covered  with  embroidery,  pincushions,  work- 
boxes,  images  in  ivory,  silver,  and  gold,  with  marble  statues, 


BOSTON     COMMON.  179 

large  as  life,  to  guard  them.  Then  there  were  all  kinds  of 
medicines,  soaps,  perfumery,  and  paints,  neatly  enveloped  in 
silver  arid  gilt  enamelled  paper;  and  silks,  muslins,  prints,  de 
laines,  &c.,  were  placed,  in  tempting  array,  upon  counters 
built  for  that  purpose. 

"  Around  the  hall  ran  a  long  balcony,  which  had  been 
draped  with  bed-quilts  and  hearth-rugs,  from  the  ingenious 
hands  of  some  of  our  fair  countrywomen.  From  the  ceilings 
were  suspended  chandeliers,  candelabras,  and  lamps,  all  light 
ed,  and  presenting  a  most  brilliant  appearance.  The  arti 
cles  which  interested  me  most,  however,  were  a  number  of 
large,  elegantly-framed  pictures,  worked  with  a  needle,  in 
worsted.  There  was  a  full-length  portrait  of  Gen.  Warren, 
looking  almost  as  natural  as  life.  On  the  opposite  side  of 
the  room  the  venerable  head  of  Washington  smiled  benignly 
upon  you,  while  a  pair  of  Cupids  embraced  each  other  in  the 
centre.  Beneath  these  pictures  was  a  large  table  covered 
with  shell-work.  Here  were  baskets,  beautifully  wrought, 
and  filled  with  the  most  delicate  flowers,  perfectly  shaped, 
and  of  various  colors.  Then,  in  the  upper  compartment,  were 
all  kinds  of  rich  furniture  of  every  description.  Bedsteads, 
chairs,  sofas,  cradles,  mirrors,  &c.,  —  in  short,  everything  use 
ful  and  beautiful  seemed  here  combined. 

"  A  fine  band  of  music  completed  the  enchantment  of  this? 
fairy  spot.  They  were  seated  far  above  all  the  dazzling  show ; 
and  as  my  guardian  was  acquainted  with  the  leader,  I  was 
introduced  to  him  also,  and  he  immediately  installed  me  in  a 
seat  near  the  band,  where  I  could  sit  and  gaze  as  long  as  I 
pleased  upon  the  ever-varying  panorama  below.  To  add,  if 
possible,  to  the  interest  of  the  scene,  a  vast  crowd  of  human 


180  BOSTON     COMMON. 

beings  filled  the  house,  and  kept  passing  and  re-passing  each 
other  with  such  rapidity  that  I  had  scarcely  time  to  distin 
guish  one  face  before  it  had  given  place  to  another,  and  was 
lost  to  view. 

"  A  delicate  collation  of  ices  and  lemonade  finished  this 
delightful  evening,  and  we  returned  home  highly  gratified 
with  our  interesting  entertainment. 

"  Then,  Katie,  I  have  visited  the  Athenaeum,  and  gazed  for 
hours  upon  the  wonderful  paintings  and  noble  pieces  of  sculp 
ture  that  adorn  its  niches  and  walls.  The  Quincy  Market  is 
also  a  place  of  considerable  attraction.  I  walked  through  it, 
one  Saturday  evening,  with  my  uncle,  and  was  quite  aston 
ished  at  the  immense  quantities  of  food  of  all  descriptions  that 
abounded  here.  The  building  has  a  centre  dome,  and  two  long 
wings.  It  is  built  of  granite,  and  supported  at  each  end  by 
immense  stone  pillars.  It  is  quite  narrow,  and  so  long  that 
you  can  scarcely  see  the  end  of  it  from  one  entrance  to  another. 

"  I  was  much  interested  to  see  people  of  all  nations,  ages, 
and  sexes,  filling  their  baskets  from  this  huge  repository,  for 
their  Sunday  dinners.  They  all  looked  intent  upon  their 
business,  and  seemed  to  enjoy  themselves  almost  as  much  as 
if  they  were  already  eating  the  contents  of  their  baskets. 

"  But  time  would  fail  me  were  I  to  describe  all  the  places 
of  interest  I  have  seen  since  my  residence  here.  I  have  sat 
in  Tremont  Temple,  and  listened  to  speeches  from  the  lips  of 
genius,  that  almost  made  my  heart  burn  within  me.  I  have 
visited  the  concert-room,  and  sat  almost  with  suspended  breath, 
lest  I  should  lose  one  tone  of  the  heavenly  music  that  was 
welling  up  from  harmonious  instruments;  and  have  listened, 
spell-bound,  to  the  warblings  of  angels,  as  I  called  them,  for 


BOSTON    COMMON.  181 

they  seemed  to  me  to  be  no  earth-born  mortals  who  were 
singing,  but  stray  spirits  from  heaven,  giving  us  a  foretaste 
of  their  own  delightful  symphonies. 

"  1  have  been  in  the  State  House,  have  ascended  its  lofty 
cupola,  and  viewed  with  delight  the  beauty  of  the  scene 
beneath  me.  Here  can  be  seen  the  whole  city  of  Boston, 
looking  like  one  dense  mass  of  brick,  slate-stones,  and  steeples. 
East  Boston,  Roxbury,  Cambridge,  Charlestown,  and  the  glo 
rious  bay,  with  its  islands,  lying  like  so  many  emeralds 
thrown  upon  its  bosom,  all  strike  the  eye  of  the  beholder  from 
this  lofty  place,  and  fill  the  breast  with  emotions  of  pride  and 
pleasure. 

"  Then  there  are  noble  rows  of  buildings,  built  of  brick, 
granite,  &c.,  in  which  all  sorts  of  articles  are  deposited, 
or  being  constantly  manufactured.  Washington-street,  on  a 
sunshiny  day,  presents  a  most  magnificent  spectacle.  Silks, 
prints,  embroidery,  and  millinery,  interspersed  with  sparkling 
plate  and  jewellery,  flash  upon  the  beholder  at  every  turn. 
The  streets  are  filled  with  people,  all  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
in  pursuit  of  something,  —  perhaps  they  scarcely  know  what. 

"  You  may  laugh  at  my  enthusiasm,  Kate,  about  dear  old 
Boston  ;  but  you  know  that  I  have  never  seen  anything  like  it 
before ;  that  I  have  always  lived  in  the  country,  and  that,  as 
a  natural  consequence,  everything  new  would  strike  me  as 
being  rather  wonderful. 

"  But,  Katherine,  in  the  midst  of  this  beautiful  city,  whose 
many  spires  point  towards  heaven,  — in  the  midst  of  education, 
refinement,  and  wealth,  —  maybe  seen  misery,  poverty,  and 
crime,  of  every  description.  This  is  sad  to  think  of;  but  it  is 
true,  nevertheless,  and  seems  to  change  the  scene  somewhat. 
16 


182  BOSTON     COMMON. 

Every  picture  must  have  its  shades,  however,  or  it  loses,  in 
its  sameness,  all  interest  for  the  beholder.  Would  that  dear 
old  Boston  were  a  little  more  delicately  touched !  Would  that 
its  shadows  were  not  composed  of  crime,  misery,  and  poverty  ! 

"  Boston  is  beautiful  at  all  times  of  the  day,  but  peculiarly 
interesting  to  me  in  the  early  morning.  There  is  to  me  some 
thing  almost  affecting,  to  arise  early  in  the  morning,  and  see,  in 
the  midst  of  life,  an-  almost  breathless  silence.  Here  are  more 
than  a  hundred  thousand  beings,  all  buried  in  deep  slumber, 
knowing  nothing,  caring  for  nothing  that  has  occurred,  and 
unconscious  of  what  is  before  them  at  present. 

"  The  first  morning  that  I  arose  thus  early  was  in  May. 
It  was  about  five  o'clock,  and  calm  and  still  as  a  summer's 
eve  in  the  country.  I  bent  my  steps  to  the  water's  edge. 
What  a  prospect  lay  on  all  sides  of  me !  Clouds  of  amber, 
purple,  and  gold,  arose  from  their  gorgeous  drapery,  and 
were  brightened  by  the  emerging  of  the  coming  god  of  day. 
The  sparkling  crests  of  the  waves  rose  and  fell  under  his 
beams,  while,  far  above,  the  upcurling  mists  cleared  away 
from  the  blue  concave,  and  the  full  magnificence  of  sky  and 
atmosphere  contrasted  richly  with  the  green  luxuriance  of 
earth,  yet  fresh  with  the  dewy  coolness  of  the  past  night. 

"And  now,  from  a  hundred  steeples  and  domes,  all  glitter 
ing  in  the  sun,  went  up  a  glad  ringing  of  bells,  and,  reaching 
far  over  the  sea,  mingled  a  murmur  of  melody,  sweet  and 
melodious  in  the  distance,  and  betokening  life,  happiness,  and 
joy,  in  the  great  city.  Fifty  thousand  chimneys  are  now 
sending  up  their  graceful  columns  of-  smoke  into  the  blue 
heavens,  and  forming  light  masses  of  drapery,  with  which  to 
envelop  the  city.  Life,  in  its  every  form  and  shape,  is  be- 


BOSTON     COMMON.  183 

ginning  to  awaken  and  revivify  under  the  glorious  beams  of 
day ;  and  a  busy  hum  greets  the  ear  in  the  far-off  distance> 
like  the  murmuring  of  bees. 

"  Carts,  wagons,  and  vehicles  of  every  description,  now 
come  lumbering  through  the  thoroughfares,  already  beginning 
to  fill  with  men,  women,  and  children,  hurrying  to  and  fro,  as 
if  in  pursuit  of  some  hidden  unknown  treasure.  Here  comes 
the  milk-man,  fresh  from  the  fields,  with  his  bright  tin  cans 
redolent  of  daisies  and  clover.  His  keen  eyes  are  fixed  upon 
the  distant  city,  as  the  goal  of  all  his  hopes.  Here,  in  a  by 
way,  is  the  busy  butcher,  with  his  high-covered  cart,  trun 
dling  lazily  over  the  rough  stones  of  the  pavement. 

"And  now  the  whole  air  is  teeming  with  life  —  busy,  stirring 
life,  mingled  with  crime,  love,  hope,  joy,  and  wretchedness. 
Here  and  there  may  be  seen  the  sweepers,  all  busied  with 
brooms  and  carts.  Here  goes  the  miser,  with  his  bent  figure, 
and  keen  black  eye,  fixed  eagerly  upon  the  ground,  as  if  in 
search  of  some  lost  valuable  which  the  unlucky  owner  has 
accidentally  parted  with  the  evening  before.  Here  may  be 
seen  the  old  rag-picker,  with  long,  bony  hand,  reaching  for 
•the  scraps  that  go  fluttering  by,  as  the  sweepers  fling  them 
into  the  cart,  and  now  and  then  uttering  an  imprecation  as 
they  elude  her  grasp.  Again,  the  bent  form  of  an  aged  man 
meets  your  gaze,  as  he  stoops  to  gather  bits  of  broken  glass, 
iron,  &c.,  that  have  collected  in  the  streets  the  day  before. 
And  so  on,  and  so  on.  How  sad  to  think  that  here,  in  the 
midst  of  riches,  refinement,  and  education,  —  here,  in  the  heart 
and  precincts  of  our  beloved,  our  church-going,  our  puritanical 
city,  —  so  much  poverty,  misery,  and  crime,  should  lurk !  Would 
that  we  could  all  root  pride  and  evil  passions  from  our  own 


184  BOSTON     COMMON. 

hearts !  Then  would  misery  and  crime  gradually  disappear,  and 
our  fair  and  lovely  city  would  arise  from  the  gloom  which 
now  envelops  her,  and  again  blossom  like  the  rose. 

"  But  I  have  pursued  my  walks  and  moralizing  until  I 
have  reached  a  beautiful  spot,  the  pride  and  joy  of  the  whole 
city,  the  haunt  of  the  old  and  young,  the  rich  and  poor,  the 
learned  and  ignorant. 

"The  good  man  meets  here  with  the  wicked  one.  The 
criminal  and  church-member,  the  friend  and  enemy,  the  bond 
and  free,  have  all  one  interest  in  this  sweet  place.  Here  the 
lover  woos  his  mistress  beneath  the  shades  of  the  lofty  trees, 
and  whispers  into  her  listening  ear  sweet  words  of  future 
hope  and  joy.  All  here  equally  participate  in  the  beauties 
spread  before  them.  The  rich  man  cannot  deprive  his  poor 
brother  of  one  jot  or  tittle  of  the  calm  pleasures  of  this  sweet 
place.  No,  the  breezes  blow  as  softly  for  him  as  for  the 
aristocrat;  the  trees  are  as  shady,  the  bowers  as  green,  the 
waters  as  bright  and  sparkling,  the  flowers  as  fragrant,  the 
sky  as  blue; — all  is  as  free  to  one  as  to  another,  in  this 
sweet  spot,  in  this  forest  in  the  midst  of  a  city,  in  this  sylvan 
nook  of  nooks,  in  this  glory  and  boast  of  our  New  England 
metropolis,  —  beautiful  Boston  Common ! 

"  I  can  give  you  no  idea,  Katherine,  of  the  delight  with 
which  my  heart  was  filled  when  this  enchanting  spot,  dressed 
in  all  the  rich  garniture  of  spring,  first  burst  upon  my  admir 
ing  gaze.  Have  you  ever  read  of  the  cool  streams  and  green 
fields  of  Paradise,  —  the  shady  bowers  and  fragrant  walks  ? 
Your  ideas  of  poetry  and  song  would  here  be  more  than 
realized.  Your  most  vivid  imagination  could  paint  no  fairer 
spot.  Here,  in  the  labyrinthine  windings,  or  under  the  shade 


BOSTON     COMMON.  185 

of  the  lofty  trees,  do  I  revel  in  the  purest  delight.  Here, 
while  the  foliage  gently  rustled  over  my  head,  and  the  limpid 
water  flowed  softly  at  my  feet,  could  I  sit  and  dream  forever. 

"  But  there,  dearest  Kate !  I  shall,  I  fear,  exhaust  your 
patience  by  giving  you  so  long  a  letter.  I  will  just  tell  you 
a  little  how  I  am  situated,  and  then  close  for  the  present. 

"  I  am  boarding  at  a  large,  fashionable  hotel,  very  near  to 
the  Common,  where  I  can  sit  at  my  window,  and  see  the  tall, 
waving  branches  of  the  trees,  nodding  and  beckoning  me  to 
come  and  visit  them,  —  an  invitation  I  can  scarcely  ever  refuse 
to  accept.  I  go  to  school  every  day,  and  am  almost  con 
stantly  engaged  in  study.  I  must  say  a  word  or  two  of  cousin 
Ernest  in  this  place.  He  is  so  very  kind  to  me,  that  surely 
he  deserves  some  attention. 

"  Ernest  is  handsome,  noble,  and  intellectual,  and  is  constant 
ly  attentive  to  my  every  wish  and  want.  He  is  never  weary, 
never  impatient,  with  me,  —  although  I  sometimes  think  that 
he  half  conceals  his  real  nature  from  me,  for  I  have  seen  hia 
dark  eye  flash  so  suddenly  that  you  would  almost  imagine 
some  lurking  spirit  of  evil  was  about  to  spring  upon  you.  He 
is  so  calm,  however,  the  next  moment,  that  it  is  very  readily 
forgotten.  He  graduated  at  Harvard  College  nearly  a  year 
ago,  and  is  now  studying  for  the  ministry.  He  is  a  splendid 
scholar,  and  often  spends  hours  in  teaching  me  some  beauti 
ful,  instructive  thing.  I  really  like  cousin  Ernest,  not  as  a 
lover,  not  as  a  husband,  but  as  a  dear,  kind  brother,  who 
studies  and  attends  to  my  every  wish. 

"  Ernest  loves  the  Common  equally  as  well  as  I  do.  We 
often  spend  hours  there  together,  wandering  through  its 
eylvan  shades,  and  talking  of  all  sorts  of  wild,  beautiful 
16* 


186  BOSTON     COMMON. 

things.  It  seems  so  strange,  —  Ernest  loves  to  be  with  me, 
loves  to  hear  me  talk,  never  for  a  moment  wearies  of  my 
society ;  and  yet  he  regards  me  only  as  a  brother  does  a  dear 
sister,  and  himself  called  the  idea  of  our  contemplated  mar 
riage  preposterous  and  absurd,  and  said  that  we  must  both 
strive  against  it. 

"  I  have  said  that  Ernest  was  handsome.  He  is  so  ;  and 
yet  he  and  I  very  closely  resemble  each  other.  Indeed,  the 
resemblance  is  so  very  striking,  that  every  one  speaks  of  it 
with  astonishment.  Ernest  says  that  we  are  alike  in  many 
other  points,  also.  I  am  sure  I  feel  highly  complimented  by 
this  comparison ;  for  could  I  resemble  him  in  mind  or  qualifi 
cations,  as  I  do  in  person,  I  should  feel  very  proud. 

"  Ernest's  hair  is  a  light,  golden  brown,  nearly  the  color  of 
my  own,  and  curls  over  a  high,  magnificent  brow,  teeming 
with  thought  and  intellect.  His  eyes  are  dark  gray,  and  so 
deep  that  you  can  scarcely  fathom  them.  His  form  is  glori 
ous, —  tall,  straight,  and  athletic;  he  is  the  very  impersona 
tion  of  strength,  manliness,  and  beauty. 

"  I  often  visit  at  his  mother's.  They  live  in  a  fine  old 
mansion,  on  Summer-street,  shaded  by  magnificent  trees,  and 
nearly  covered  by  the  creeping  woodbine  and  fragrant  honey 
suckle.  My  uncle  Richmond  is  a  stern  old  man,  with  white 
hair,  and  a  very  forbidding  face.  I  never  feel  at  ease  in  his 
society,  and  so  I  seek  it  as  little  as  possible.  My  aunt  Isa 
bella  is  a  tall,  straight,  and  very  majestic  woman.  She  is 
quite  affectionate,  but  keeps  you  in  your  own  place ;  for  she 
goes  upon  the  principle  that  '  familiarity  breeds  contempt.' 
They  are  both  in  ill  health,  and  will  not  live  long,  I  fear. 
Gerald  Richmond,  whom  you  have  seen,  has  lately  married, 


BOSTON     COMMON.  187 

and  taken  his  bride  to  the  far  West,  to  carve  out  a  fortune  for 
himself. 

"  Ernest  has  one  sister, —  a  lovely  girl,  just  my  cousin  Har 
ry's  age.  She  is  a  merry,  good-natured  creature,  and  seems 
the  only  bright  thing  in  the  whole  house.  She  and  myself 
are  the  best  of  friends,  and  both  attend  the  same  school. 
She  has  a  perfect  reverence  for  her  brother  Ernest,  whom  she 
considers  a  paragon,  and  looks  up  to  him  as  a  daughter  would 
to  a  father. 

"  But,  Katie,  I  will  now  bid  you  adieu.  At  present  I  am 
enjoying  everything  here  with  a  perfect  relish.  The  novelty 
has  not  yet  gone.  I  cannot  tell  how  long  it  may  last,  how 
ever.  Please  write  me  soon,  and  tell  me  every  particular  of 
dear  old  Linden,  and  the  good  people  there. 

"  Yours,  affectionately, 

-  "HELEN." 


CHAPTEK    XX. 

"  0  !  had  we  some  bright  little  isle  of  our  own, 
In  a  blue  summer  ocean,  far  off  and  alone, 
Where  a  leaf  never  dies  in  the  still  blooming  bowers, 
And  the  bee  banquets  on  through  a  whole  year  of  flowers  j 
Where  the  sun  loves  to  pause 

With  so  fond  a  delay, 
That  the  night  only  draws 
A  thin  veil  o'er  the  day  ; 

Where  simply  to  feel  that  we  breathe,  that  we  live, 
Is  worth  the  best  joy  that  life  elsewhere  can  give." 

IRISH  MELODIES. 

A  FEW  months  later,  I  indited  the  following : 

"  Boston,  October  the  2Qth,  18—. 
"  DEAR  KATE  : 

"I  am  so  lonely  to-day,  eo  sad,  —  everything  has  gone 
wrong  with  me !  Uncle  Glenmore,  to  whom  I  always  apply 
in  my  troubles,  is  out  of  town ;  and  aunt  Gertrude  has  the 
sick-headache,  and  has  sent  me  from  her.  It  rains,  and  the 
whole  city  looks  dark  and  gloomy.  A  heavy  cloud  seems  to 
rest  upon  everything  to-day,  and  adds  its  own  leaden  hue  to 
my  mind. 

"  I  am  weary  of  the  noise  and  din  of  this  great  city.  I 
would  that  I  were  far  away  from  the  confusion  everywhere 


BOSTON     COMMON.  189 

around  me,  and  near  you,  my  Kate.  Would  that  you  were  a 
man,  and  I  your  little  wife !  How  happy  might  we  be,  did 
we  possess  a  sweet  little  cottage  of  our  own,  where  discord 
and  strife  were  never  allowed  to  enter,  but  where  all  waa 
peace  and  sunshine  !  While  you  were  busied  during  the  day 
in  a  contest  with  the  world,  striving  with  might  and  main  to 
see  who  should  have  the  better  bargain,  your  little  wife  would 
be  at  home,  the  sweet  place,  making  all  bright  and  pleasant 
for  the  coming  of  the  welcome  guest.  Whatever  storms  you 
might  have  to  encounter  without,  all  would  be  calm  within. 
Let  me  see ;  how  would  we  pass  our  time  ? 

"  In  the  winter  we  would  hie  away  to  the  gay,  life-stirring 
city,  where  we  would  sing  and  dance  the  bright  hours  away ; 
would  listen  to  beautiful,  soul-stirring  music,  till  our  very 
souls  would  be  borne  away,  filled  with  harmony,  upon  the 
wings  of  sound.  Then  would  come  the  pleasant  sleigh-ride, 
with  a  few  chosen  friends.  The  bells  would  jingle  merrily, 
and  we  would  skim  over  the  frozen  ice,  swift  as  birds  upon 
the  wing.  Our  evenings  would  be  enlivened  by  a  ball,  opera, 
tea-party,  or  some  pleasant  amusement,  and  we  could  be  con 
tent,  should  the  evening  prove  stormy,  to  remain  by  our  own 
bright  fireside.  We  would  draw  down  the  thick  curtains  to 
shut  out  the  blast,  wheel  our  easy-chairs  close  to  the  coal- 
grate,  and  you  should  read  to  me,  in  your  deep,  manly  voice, 
while  I  hemmed  handkerchiefs  for  you,  or  arranged  some 
part  of  my  own  wardrobe,  perhaps. 

"Then  would  come  the  sweet  hour  of  conversation.  You 
would  ask  your  little  wife  if  she  had  any  wishes  that  you 
could  supply,  or  troubles  that  you  could  alleviate ;  and  she,  in 
turn,  would  soothe  and  smooth  away  the  furrows  which  busi- 


190  BOSTON     COMMON. 

ness  and  care  had  left  upon  your  brow.  Thus,  in  perfect 
confidence  reposing  in  each  other,  would  we  sink  to  rest,  to 
await  the  dawning  of  another  day. 

"  When  the  birds  began  to  sing,  and  the  sun  to  warm  and 
revivify  the  earth,  we  would  betake  ourselves  to  our  sweet 
woodland  home,  where,  amid  green  fields,  shady  trees,  singing 
birds,  and  blooming  flowers,  we  would  while  the  too  happy 
hours  away. 

"  We  would  choose  our  cot  upon  the  borders  of  some  silver 
lake,  where  lofty  mountains  vied  with  the  clouds  in  grandeur, 
and  dark  shady  forests  invited  us  to  enter  and  ramble  among 
their  cool  recesses. 

"  How  delightful  would  be  a  picnic  upon  the  fairy  lake, 
some  soft  twilight  hour !  I  see  it  all  now,  —  the  beautiful 
sheet  of  water,  spread  out  like  a  mirror,  and  innocently  re 
flecting  the  serene  blue  heavens ;  the  dark  willow-trees  dip 
ping  their  branche^  into  the  edge  of  the  lake,  with  a  sweet, 
gurgling  sound,  and  our  tiny  boat  gliding  along  under  these 
trees,  now  almost  touching  the  banks,  now  swiftly  skimming 
the  surface.  Would  not  this  be  happiness,  think  you  ?  Our 
appetites  would  be  so  keen,  too,  after  a  long  mountain  ramble, 
and  our  sleep  so  sweet,  with  a  murmuring  brook  for  our  lul 
laby,  and  the  frogs  and  crickets  for  our  serenaders. 

"  Then  would  come  the  long,  bright  summer  days,  when  we 
would  strew  our  paths  with  flowers,  and  weave  bright  wreaths 
of  happiness,  colored  with  the  tints  of  the  rainbow.  We 
would  sit  by  '  old  ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste,'  and 
listen  in  awe  to  the  booming  thunder,  as  it  rolled  over  our 
heads,  or  watch  the  beauty  of  the  flashing  lightning,  that 


BOSTON     COMMON.  191 

seems  to  write  the  name  of  the  awful  Jehovah,  in  its  own 
light,  upon  his  skies.  . 

"  When  the  days  grew  long  and  hot,  we  would  hie  away  to 
some  healthy  watering-place,  where  we  would  meet  with  our 
city  friends,  and  the  charms  of  social  intercourse  would  be 
renewed.  Reading,  conversation,  riding,  and  walking,  would 
help  to  pass  away  the  time ;  and  in  a  few  weeks  we  would 
return  to  our  sylvan  dell,  happy  to  get  back  once  more  to  our 
own  sweet  home. 

"  Now  come  the  charms  of  autumn,  dear  Kate.  The  woods 
are  clothed  in  their  gorgeous  many-colored  robes,  and  green, 
red,  orange,  and  yellow,  strike  the  eye  in  an  agreeable  confu 
sion.  Our  fruits  are  now  all  ripe,  and  we  must  be  busy  in 
gathering  them  for  the  winter.  The  apple-trees  bend  beneath 
their  mellow  burden ;  the  pears  are  placing  their  delicious 
yellow  sides  to  the  sun,  and  the  peaches  look  so  ripe  and  soft, 
that  we  are  tempted  to  give  them  a  kiss^  as  we  pass.  The 
grapes  are  hanging  in  rich  clusters  of  purple  and  green  over 
our  heads,  and  the  melons  are  ripening  at  our  feet. 

"  How  calm  and  quiet  is  our  ramble  now  through  the  dim 
forest !  The  walks  are  carpeted  with  brown  oak-leaves,  the 
tender  twigs  crackle  beneath  our  feet,  the  brook  is  murmuring 
along  in  the  distance,  the  birds  are  singing  in  low  and  plain 
tive  strains  a  requiem  to  the  departing  year,  and  the  distant 
axe  of  the  woodman  is  heard,  startling  the  very  echoes  to  life, 
as  it  rings  out  loudly  and  clearly  through  the  forest  sanctua 
ries.  And  now,  as  we  approach  home,  our  faithful  dog  gives 
us  a  loud  and  sonorous  welcome,  and  the  cheerful  light  from 
its  windows  beckons  us  to  its  peaceful  shelter. 

"  Thus  would  pass  our  time,  dear  Katie,  provided  no  anger 


192  BOSTON     COMMON. 

or  envy  crept  in  to  mar  our  paradise ;  but  we  know  that  in 
this  world  the  trail  of  the  serpent  is  over  every  Eden,  and 
we  should  probably  be  unhappy  at  times.  But  what  a  long 
sermon  have  I  preached  to  you,  Kate !  Are  you  not  tired 
of  my  nonsense,  and  almost  asleep?  I  have  been  writing 
so  long  and  earnestly,  that  I  half  fancied  what  I  wrote  might 
be  true ;  but,  alas !  't  is  but  a  dream,  like  all  my  beautiful 
air-castles,  and  will,  like  them,  fall  for  want  of  a  founda 
tion.  But  would,  would  that  it  might  be  realized !  Life 
would  be  far  too  short  to  enjoy  such  a  heaven ;  in  and  we 
should  so  dread  the  dark,  cold  grave,  which  might  yawn  for 
us  at  any  moment ! 

"  Death !  what  a  fearful  thought !  It  comes  over  me  like 
'the  vision  of  some  frightful  dream,  or  the  shadow  of  some 
dreadful  nightmare,  putting  to  flight  all  my  sweet  visions, 
glaring  with  its  sunken  eyes  at  my  darling  lake  and  cottage, 
and  scaring,  with  its  long,  bony  fingers,  all  my  singing  birds 
away.  It  breathes,  with  its  shivery  breath,  upon  my  mur 
muring  brook,  and  the  brook  changes  instantly  to  an  icicle, — 
a  blast  passes  over  my  sweet  flowers,  and  they  shrink,  and 
hurry  to  be  gone  ! 

"  But  why  do  I  so  horribly  reverse  the  picture,  and  to  you, 
also,  to  whom  the  idea  of  death  is  like  a  dark  cloud,  hovering 
over  all  your  prospects  ?  I  know  not  why,  unless  it  is  that 
opposites  are  my  nature.  I  go  instanter  from  pleasure  to 
pain,  from  sorrow  to  joy,  from  life  to  death ;  and  the  image 
of  the  one  is  but  the  shadow  of  the  other. 

"But  cheer  up,  dear  Kate.;  for  by  this  time  you  are  sad 
enough,  I  know.  I  am  sad  also,  to-day.  The  beautiful  Com 
mon  is  clothed  in  the  gorgeous  robes  of  autumn,  and  the 


BOSTON    COMMON*  193 

leaves  every  now  and  then  fall,  impelled  by  the  sighing 
zephyr,  to  the  ground.  It  reminds  me  of  the  winter  that  is 
fast  approaching ;  alas !  the  winter  of  my  soul  has  already 
come.  I  have  been  quite  happy  during  all  the  long,  bright 
summer  days,  —  everything  was  so  new,  so  fresh ;  but  the 
novelty  has  in*  a  measure  worn  off.  I  grow  weary  of  the 
everlasting  piles  of  brick  and  granite,  the  tall  steeples,  the 
dry,  dusty  pavements,  and  the  din  and  clatter  of  this  large 
city,  and  begin  to  long  once  more  for  my  own  quiet  chamber 
at  Linden,  or  an  affectionate  chat  with  you,  in  our  airy  seat, 
upon 'old  Granite  Bluff.'  What  happy  times  were  those, 
dearest  Kate !  I  shall  never  forget  them.  Childhood  has 
passed ;  but  the  memory  of  its  freshness  and  purity  is  like  a 
cool,  sparkling  stream,  or  a  green  oasis  in  the  desert. 

"  My  cousin  Ernest's  conversation,  however,  and  our  ram 
bles  upon  the  ever  beautiful  Common,  never  weary  me  by 
their  sameness.  Ernest  is  always  so  bright,  so  animated,  that 
I  cannot  choose  but  be  cheerful  by  his  side ;  and  although 
sorrow  will  creep  in  at  times,  yet  the  charm  of  his  conversa 
tion  always  has  power  to  beguile  me  of  half  my  grief;  and  as 
his  tones  linger  upon  my  ears,  and  are  lost  in  the  echoes  of 
the  rustling  trees  over  my  head,  I  half  forget  myself,  and  am 
almost  won  to  happiness. 

. "  But,  Katie,  I  must  bid  you  adieu.  My  aunt  Gertrude 
has  awakened,  and  called  for  me,  and  I  see  my  cousin  Ernest 
coming  down  the  street.  Answer  this  soon,  and  gratify  your 
own  HELEN." 

17 


CHAPTEK    XXI. 

"  How  could  you  say  my  face  was  fair, 

And  yet  that  face  forsake  ? 
How  could  you  win  my  virgin  heart, 
Yet  leave  that  heart  to  break  ?  " 

"Know,  then,  that  I  have  supported  my  pretensions  to  your  hand  in 
the  way  that  best  suited  my  character."  —  IVAXHOE. 

TIME  passed  on.  The  winter  came  and  went;  and  in  my 
every-day  duties  I  half  forgot  my  melancholy,  and  became,  as 
uncle  Glenmore  said,  like  my  former  self.  I  had  received  a 
great  number  of  letters  from  Letitia,  and  one  day,  early  in 
April,  my  uncle  handed  me  the  following  elaborate  and 
highly-scented  epistle,  written  in  a  delicate  hand,  and  upon 
gilt-edged  note-paper.  It  was  from  Letitia,  and  read  thus  : 

"  St.  Thomas'  Glen,  April  1th. 

"  MY  DEAR  AND  EVER-TO-BE-LAMENTED  HELENA  : 

"  Time  cannot  alleviate  the  bitter  anguish  I  endure  in  thy 
absence.  I  realize  more  and  more,  each  day,  how  very  dear 
and  necessary  you  were,  and  ever  will  be,  to  my  happiness. 
To  my  happiness,  did  I  say  ?  To  my  very  existence  —  to  my 
soul;  for  are  you  not  a  part  of  that  soul,  my  cherished 
one  ?  and  did  I  not  dedicate  it  entirely  to  you,  when  you 
were  with  me  ? 


BOSTON      COMMON.  195 

"  Then,  Helena,  return,  1  pray  you, —  I  plead  with  you, — 
and  let  me  again  feast  upon  the  heaven  of  your  eyes ;  let  me 
again  bask  in  the  sunshine  of  your  smiles ;  let  me  once  more 
lie  upon  your  breast,  and  pour  out  all  the  sorrows  of  my  own 
which  have  accumulated  there  since  your  departure. 

"  Yes,  Helena,  —  my  other  half,  my  soul,  —  I  have  expe 
rienced  more  anguish  since  your  departure  than  my  poor  pen 
could  portray,  although  gifted  with  the  eloquence  of  a  Demos 
thenes.  Was  it  not  enough  that  I  should  be  left  solitary  and 
alone,  mourning  upon  my  perch,  like  a  turtle-dove  for  her 
mate,  but  that  I  must  again  encounter  falsehood  and  decep 
tion  from  a  man  ?  Yes,  my  own  one,  I  have  once  more  (de 
spairing  of  Elwyn  Moore's  love)  ventured  my  frail  bark  upon 
the  tempestuous  ocean  of  love,  and  have  again  been  cruelly 
repulsed. 

"Helena,  darling,  I  love  once  more!  and  this  time  no  sniv 
elling  school-master,  who  cannot  appreciate  the  rich  treasure 
of  a  woman's  love;  but  a  tall,  slender  youth,  of  wild,  glorious 
beauty ;  eyes  that  took  captive  my  silly  maiden  heart  at 
once ;  and  hair  like  the  ambrosial  locks  of  the  gods, —  golden, 
and  floating  in  curls  over  an  intellectual  brow;  and  then, 
his  name — why,  it  is  so  sweet,  so  musical,  that  I  half  lost  my 
breath  when  I  first  heard  it  spoken !  Listen,  Helena,  mine 
own,  while  I  breathe  it — Clarence  Brooke!  Didst  ever 
hear  anything  half  so  beautiful  ?  It  reminds  me  of  the 
murmuring  of  brooks  or  the  warbling  of  birds  in  summer 
time.  It  fell  upon  my  enraptured  ear  like  rich  music,  and 
vibrated  among  my  heart-strings  long  after  I  had  heard  it 
spoken ! 

"  Clarence  Brooke  (I  love  to  repeat  the  sweet  name)  is  the 


196  BOSTON     COMMON. 

son  of  a  wealthy  gentleman,  who  has  sent  him  here  to  com 
plete  his  education,  preparatory  to  entering  college,  —  and 
such  an  addition  as  he  is  to  our  little  cherished  circle !  But, 
O,  sad  to  relate,  my  sweetest  Helena !  he  scorns  my  devoted 
love  ;  he  deigns  not  to  cast  one  pitying  glance  upon  my  bleed 
ing  heart,  —  bleeding  but  for  him  alone  !  But  time  will  tell 
the  tale.  Should  Clarence  still  continue  cold,  and  regardless 
of  my  deep  affection,  I  shall  sink  at  his  feet,  and  expire, 
breathing  out  his  name  with  my  last  respiration. 

"  I  am  comforted',  however,  with  the  thought,  that  when  he 
finds  the  sacrifice  has  been  so  fearful,  he  will  be  brought  to 
realize  the  preciousness  of  the  treasure  he  has  lost.  Again 
the  cheering  thought  breaks  in,  like  sunshine  through  an 
April  cloud,  that  perhaps,  disgusted  with  the  world,  and  hor 
rified  at  my  untimely  fate,  he  too  will  faint,  —  will  expire  ! 
and  then  shall  they  lay  us  both  in  one  grave,  heap  the  same 
turf  over  our  forms,  and  plant  the  same  flowers  at  our  heads. 
O,  ecstasy !  I  cannot  think  of  it !  'T  would  be  bliss,  and 
bliss  untold,  to  die  in  this  manner  !  Who  would  be  a  deni 
zen  of  earth,  his  garments  clogged  with  clay,  when  he  could 
die,  and  die  for  love  ?  May  this  be  my  happy  fate  ! 

"  I  must  speak  of  your  cousin,  Harry  Glenmore.  He  is 
ill,  very  ill  at  times;  but  manages  to  keep  at  his  studies. 
He  prays,  reads,  and  muses,  as  much  as  ever.  To  tell  you 
the  truth,  Helena,  I  never  fancied  Harry  much.  How  he 
can  afford  to  die,  so  young,  so  beautiful,  is  more  than  I  can 
fathom.  Poor  Harry  !  I  pity  him  for  possessing  such  a 
senseless  soul ! 

"  I  suppose  you  have  learned,  ere  this,  that  your  old,  false 
flame,  Roland  Hastings,  has  broken  his  engagement  with 


BOSTON    COMMON.  197 

Mary  Listen.  He  never  seemed  quite  right  after  your  de 
parture,  —  so  people  said,  —  and,  after  going  with  Mary  all 
summer,  he  left  her  abruptly.  Everybody  thinks  that  she 
will  die  in  consequence  of  it.  If  she  does,  Helena,  what  mat 
ters  it  ?  It  will  only  be  another  instance  of  man's  desertion 
and  woman's  love. 

"  How  I  tremble,  dearest  one,  when  I  think  of  that  dark, 
that  horrible  time,  when,  but  for  your  strong  good  sense, 
you  might  have  died !  Alas !  had  I  then  lost  my  idolized 
friend,  this  world  would  have  had  nothing  further  to  please 
my  aching  fancy.  I  should  have  sunk,  and  perished 
also. 

"  Now,  my  kindred  spirit,  my  beloved  one,  my  heart  of 
hearts,  let  me  kiss  thee  in  imagination ;  let  me  hold  thee  close 
to  my  bosom ;  let  me  twine  my  longing  arms  around  thy  be 
loved  form ;  let  me  invoke  blessings  upon  thy  head,  as  I  bid 
thee  farewell !  Thine  all,  thine  own, 

"  LETISE." 

The  letter  dropped  from  my  trembling  fingers ;  my  head 
bowed  upon  the  arm  of  the  sofa,  and  I  wept  —  wept,  for  joy 
had  come  back  to  my  heart.  A  wild,  vague  hope  that  Roland 
indeed  loved  me  —  had  loved  me  all  the  while  —  flashed 
over  my  heart  like  a  stream  of  sunshine. 

I  arose,  and  paced  to  and  fro  the  floor.  "  I  will  —  I  must 
go  back  to  Roland,"  thought  I.  "  I  will  return  to  Linden ; 
I  will  seek  him ;  I  will  comfort  his  aching  heart,  and  will 
never  let  him  dream  of  my  own  past  sorrow  !  But  stop  !  — 
poor  Mary  Listen,  —  what  right  have  I  with  her  betrothed  ? 
Is  he  not  hers  in  the  sight  of  Heaven  ?•  and  shall  I,  by  one  rash 
17* 


198  BOSTON     COMMON. 

act,  tear  him  from  her  side  ?  No !  I  can  never  do  this.  She 
may  perish,  she  may  die,  but  not  by  my  means.  I  will  be 
firm,  —  I  will  do  my  duty,  and  leave  the  issue  to  God." 

I  flung  myself  back  upon  the  sofa-cushions,  and,  overcome 
by  my  emotions,  sunk  into  a  deep  sleep.  How  long  I  re 
mained  thus  sleeping  I  cannot  tell,  but  as  I  opened  my  eyes 
they  encountered  those  of  Ernest  Richmond.  He  was  gaz 
ing  attentively  at  me,  and  I  never  saw  such  a  look  of  interest 
in  his  face  before.  In  his  hand  he  held  Letitia's  letter,  which 
I  had  unconsciously  dropped. 

"  Well,  Ernest,"  said  I,  as  I  attempted  to  snatch  it  frcm 
him,  "  have  you  read  my  letter  ?  " 

"  I  have  not,  Miss  Clifton,"  he  answered ;  "  even  my  cousin- 
ship  admits  of  no  such  familiarity  as  that." 

This  was  said  with  a  sneer,  as  he  handed  me  back  the 
document,  and  seated  himself  by  my  side.  I  was  sorry  for 
hurting  his  feelings,  and  apologized. 

"  I  did  not,  of  course,  think,  for  a  moment,  that  you  had 
read  my  letter,  Ernest.  I  pray  you  pardon  me." 

He  smiled  upon  me,  but  so  witheringly  that  I  suddenly 
burst  into  tears.  He  spoke,  and  his  voice  was  stern  and 
harsh. 

"  Helen,  have  done  with  these  foolish  tears,  and  everlasting 
sighs  !  You  are  no  longer  a  child,  that  you  should  weep  for 
every  trifling  occurrence.  You  are  seventeen  years  of  age, 
and  have  been  at  this  place  a  year  to  day.  You  ought 
surely  to  have  improved  since  that  time ;  so,  dry  your  eyes, 
and  weep  no  more." 

I  looked  at  him,  and  wondered  if  this  were  my  cousin 


BOSTON     COMMON.        .  199 

Ernest,  who  had  always,  heretofore,  been  so  endearing  in  his 
language,  so  tender  of  my  comfort,  my  happiness. 

"  Helen,"  he  continued,  "  have  I  been  exactly  what  you 
wished,  during  the  past  year  ?  Have  I  always  obeyed  your 
commands,  studied  your  wishes,  and  ever  been  the  kind, 
attentive  cousin  that  I  promised  to  be  ?  " 

"  You  have,  indeed,"  I  replied.  "  You  have  taught  me  to 
love  you  very  dearly,  Ernest ;  you  have  helped  me  out  of  a 
thousand  difficulties,  and  have  been  untiring  in  your  efforts 
for  my  happiness." 

"  Then,''  continued  Ernest,  drawing  a  little  paper  carefully 
from  his  pocket-book,  "  if  I  have  faithfully  performed  my 
duty,  I  now  ask  and  claim  my  reward,  promised  by  your  own 
hand-writing,  one  year  ago.  Helen,  this  is  the  tenth  of 
April ! " 

I  sprang  from  my  seat,  and,  grasping  the  paper,  read  it 
through.  "Pshaw!  Ernest,"  I  exclaimed,  "I  was  only  in 
jest." 

"  It  is  too  late  to  talk  of  jests  now,"  he  replied  ;  "  I  am 
in  no  humor  for  such  conversation.  I  hired  myself  to  you 
for  one  year ;  and  now  I  have  come  for  my  pay,  which  I  must 
have." 

I  looked  at  him  in  surprise.  Again  did  I  feel  as  though 
he  were  Lucifer,  and  that  he  had  come  for  my  soul.  I  had 
only  power  to  gasp  out  the  words,  "What  do  you  ask?  — 
what  do  you  want  of  me  ?  " 

"  My  reward,  Helen,"  he  replied,  in  a  low,  deep  tone,  that 
admitted  of  no  contradiction,  "  is,  your  hand  in  marriage, 
which  I  am  willing  to  wait  another  year  for,  only  on  this 
condition  :  I  have  served  you  faithfully  for  one  year ;  —  for 


200  BOSTON     COMMON. 

the  next,  you  must  serve  me,  and  do  exactly  my  bidding,: 
after  that,  we  will  serve  each  other." 

I  started,  in  horror,  from  his  side,  and  sunk,  crouchingly, 
into  a  corner  of  the  room.  I  did  not  dare  to  weep,  for  he 
had  just  forbid4en  it,  and  I  was  already  in  the  power  of  the 
tyrant. 

"  Well,  Helen,"  said  he,  at  length,  "  I  await  your  sanction 
to  my  wishes.  Keep  me  not  long  upon  the  rack." 

I  glanced  fearfully  towards  him ;  his  mouth  was  drawn 
firmly  together,  and  his  gray  eyes  rested  coldly  upon  me.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  he  must  have  had  a  heart  of  stone,  to  have 
stood  there,  and,  in  the  face  of  all  my  anguish,  demand  of  ntte 
a  sacrifice  so  great. 

"  0,  Ernest,"  I  tremblingly  asked,  "  will  nothing  soften 
you?  Will  you  doom  me  to  the  fulfilment  of  a  promise 
made  when  I  was  in  entire  ignorance  of  what  it  meant  ?  " 

"  Arise,  Helen,"  he  answered,  "  and  listen  to  me.  I  have 
much  to  say  to  you,  and  will  tell  you  all  when  you  are  my 
promised  wife.  Arise,  and  do  as  I  wish." 

I  arose,  and  looked  him  firmly  in  the  face  for  a  moment. 
"  Ernest,"  I  exclaimed,  as  he  bent  his  lightning  glance  upon 
me,  "I  cannot  —  that  is,  I  mean,  I  do  not  love  you  well 
enough  to  marry  you.  0,  spare  me,  Ernest,  —  in  pity,  spare 
me  !  I  am  so  miserable,  so  unhappy,  what  can  I  do  ?  " 

"  Helen,"  said  the  voice  of  my  tormentor,  thrusting  the 
hateful  paper  before  my  eyes  again,  "  remember  your  word, 
your  written  word,  and  do  as  I  wish." 

"  Why,  Ernest,"  said  I,  "  you  told  me  that  this  marriage 
was  repugnant  to  your  feelings ;  that  it  was  a  contract  made 


BOSTON     COMMON.  201 

by  our  parents,  and  that  we  would  do  all  we  could  to  prevent 
it."  . 

"  Helfen,"  said  Ernest,  his  dark  eyes  kindling  with  sup 
pressed  ire,  "  not  another  word,  but  tell  me,  yes  or  no.  If 
yes,  your  word  is  sacred ;  if  no,  you  have  played  false  unto 
God  and  man,  and  are,  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  and  your 
Maker,  a  liar  !  " 

I  shuddered,  —  a  cold,  sickly  feeling  crept  over  my  whole 
frame,  and  I  sank  tremblingly  into  a  chair.  A  mist  came 
before  my  eyes,  and  a  dreadful  sensation  of  guilt  pervaded 
my  breast,  as  I  faintly  pronounced  the  words  that  were  to 
bind  me  forever  to  the  stern,  unflinching  tyrant  who  seemed 
to  hold  my  destiny  in  his  hands.  He  bent  his  head  low  to 
catch  my  whisper,  and  when  the  words  "  I  will  be  yours  !  " 
were  uttered,  took  me  in  his  arms  tenderly  as  a  mother 
would  her  infant,  pressed  his  first  kiss  upon  my  brow,  and 
placed  me  gently  upon  the  sofa. 

I  sat  like  one  petrified,  —  receiving  his  caresses  as  a  mat 
ter  of  course,  and  remaining  perfectly  quiet. 

"  Helen,"  said  Ernest,  "  or,  my  Helen,  as  I  can  now  call 
you,  you,  no  doubt,  think  me  very  harsh,  cruel,  and  dislike 
me  exceedingly ;  but  listen  to  me  a  few  moments,  before  you 
condemn.  When  you  were  an  infant,  and  I  but  seven  years 
old,  you  were  placed  in  my  arms.  They  said  that  your  hair 
was  golden,  and  your  eyes  gray,  like  mine ;  that  you  had 
already  pinched  and  scratched  your  nurse,  as  I  had  done ;  that 
we  were  alike  in  many  other  points,  and  that  you  were  to  be 
my  little  wife.  I  listened  eagerly  to  their  words,  and,  young 
as  I  was,  understood  them.  I  hugged  the  tiny  thing  to  my 


202  BOSTON     COMMON. 

heart,  and,  imprinting  kiss  after  kiss  upon  its  brow,  be 
trothed  myself  to  it,  in  my  own  childish  way. 

"  Well,  Helen,  you  grew  up.  Every  one  said  tnat  you 
were  very  like  me  in  form,  features,  temper,  &c.,  and  that 
we  were  certainly  made  to  go  together.  Our  parents  joined 
in  the  plan ;  and  I  determined,  when  but  a  youth  of  fifteen,  to 
marry  none  but  you. 

"  When  you  were  eleven  years  of  age,  I  was  presented 
with  a  painted  portrait  of  you,  which  I  examined  with  the 
most  intense  interest.  I  noted  the  hair,  mouth,  and  eyes; 
they  were  exact  prototypes  of  my  own.  I  again  determined 
that  you  should  be  my  wife ;  and  so  I  placed  the  picture  in 
my  own  chamber,  and  talked  to  it  every  day,  as  I  would  to  a 
room-mate.  Many  an  interesting  conversation  have  I  carried 
on  with  this  little  spirit-wife,  as  I  called  the  picture,  and  of 
course  the  answers  were  all  given  to  suit  myself. 

"  The  time  at  length  drew  nigh  when  you  were  expected 
in  Boston,  with  your  guardian.  I  heard,  every  now  and  then, 
of  your  well-doing ;  and  every  letter  I  received  from  the  east 
increased  my  love  for  you.  At  length  I  learned  of  your 
preference  for  Mr.  Hastings,  and  my  heart  was  on  fire  for  a 
while  with  the  intelligence.  I  pictured  to  myself  your  lov 
ing  this  man,  and  resolved,  even  at  the  very  altar,  that  I 
would  interfere,  and  draw  you,  if  possible,  from  your  would- 
be  husband's  side. 

0 

"  By  and  by,  the  rumor  came  that  you  and  Hastings  had 
parted,  and  forever,  —  that  he  was  about  to  be  married  to 
another,  and  that  a  change  had  taken  place  in  you.  I  mused 
over  this  change,  but  gave  it  another  name.  '  She  is,  or  has 


BOSTON     COMMON.  203 

been,  in  love,'  thought  I ;  '  but  I  will  yet  conquer  that.  She 
must  and  shall  be  mine.' 

"  At  length,  Helen,  you  came  to  Boston.  I  was  all  eager 
ness,  all  impatience,  to  behold  one  for  whom  I  had  waited, 
watched,  and  dreamed,  so  many  years ;  and  when  Gerald 
told  me  that  you  had  actually  arrived,  and  were  waiting  to 
see  me,  my  heart  beat  with  a  wild  sensation  of  joy  and  uncer 
tainty.  I  could  scarcely  wait  until  I  had  ascended  the 
stairs ;  but  I  schooled  my  heart,  and  by  the  force  of  a  strong 
will  subdued  my  desires  at  once.  I  entered,  and  fixed  my  eyes 
upon  the  being  whom  I  had  so  long  loved  by  proxy.  I  shall 
never  forget  my  sensations,  Helen,  when  I  first  beheld  you. 
You  were  half  lying,  half  sitting,  upon  the  sofa,  reading,  and 
apparently  indifferent  to  all  around  you;  but  in  this  very 
indifference  I  read  a  strong  interest  for  the  cousin  of  whom 
you  had  heard  so  much. 

"  How  well  I  remember  your  dress,  and  everything  about 
you !  You  were  attired  in  blue.  I  shall  always  love  you 
in  that  color;  and  you  must  wear  it  often,  by  and  .by.  I 
spoke,  and  in  your  answer  our  eyes  met  for  the  first  time. 
What  eyes  !  —  how  like,  and  yet  how  unlike,  my  own  !  Mine 
were  deep,  and  cold,  perhaps; — yours  warm,  expressive, 
and  affectionate.  In  them  I  read  that  your  nature  was 
ardent,  and  that  you  possessed  a  heart  capable  of  deeply  lov 
ing  the  object  upon  whom  you  placed  your  affections. 

"  Prom  that  moment  I  resolved  that  I  would  be  thanobject ; 
and  that,  in  return  for  my  long  years  of  devotion  to  you, 
you  should  bestow  all  the  strength  of  your  love  upon  me,  and 
that  I  would  gain  the  entire  control  of  your  heart  and  will.  In 
view  of  this,  I  tried  a  little  experiment  at  our  first  meeting, 


204  BOSTON     COMMON. 

which,  if  it  proved  successful,  I  resolved  to  consider  as  an 
omeu  in  my  favor.  It  was,  as  you  perhaps  recollect,  per 
fectly  successful.  I  made  you,  by  a  few  words,  suddenly 
perceive  a  striking  resemblance  between  us,  where,  a  moment 
before,  you  saw  none.  You  had  yielded  to  me  in  this,  and  all 
I  had  to  do  was  to  follow  my  success.  • 

"  In  the  evening  I  called  again,  and,  full  of  impatience  to 
ascertain  your  feelings  with  regard  to  me,  I  mentioned  our 
proposed  marriage.  I  saw  in  a  moment  that  it  was  disagree 
able,  hateful,  to  you ;  and  I  resolved  to  try  another  experiment. 
I  had  heard  of  your  piety,  of  your  sacred  regard  for  your 
word,  &c.,  and  I  determined  to  test  them  both. 

"  I  did  not  much  marvel  at  your  not  loving  me,  for  I  had 
heard  a  deal  of  your  preference  for  Hastings;  but  I  was 
resolved  that  you  should  love  me,  and  with  all  your  power -of 
loving,  also.  I  felt  a  glory  in  being  able  to  subdue  this  little, 
wild  spirit  to  do  my  entire  bidding. 

"  Well,  Helen,  I  determined  to  be  kind  to  you,  —  so  very 
kind,  that  you  could  not  help  feeling  a  strong  interest  in  me, 
and  a  desire  for  my  society ;  and,  first  of  all,  I  bound  you, 
all  unknown  to  yourself,  to  me,  by  a  written  promise,  which  I 
carelessly  asked  you  to  sign. 

"  After  this,  I  abstained  carefully  from  all  caresses,  from 
all  appearance  of  loving,  and  treated  you  very  much  as  a 
kind,  afflpctionate  brother  would  a  little  pet  of  a  sister.  I 
carried  you  to  rides,  walks,  sailing-parties,  picnics,  &c. ; 
played  all  sorts  of  games  with  you,  answered  your  questions, 
and,  in  short,  quite  won  your  confidence  by  my  untiring  exer 
tions  for  your  happiness  and  comfort. 

"  But  this  is  not  all,  Helen.     I  have  suffered,  like  your- 


BOSTON     COMMON.  205 

self,  in  the  year  that  has  past.  I  have  studied  your  nature, 
and  have  discovered  a  secret  pain,  a  hidden  grief,  upon  that 
brow,  that  all  my  art  cannot  heal.  I  have  learned  that, 
young  as  you  are,  you  do  really  love  another ;  but  that  you 
would  willingly  give  up  that  other,  and  forget  your  love,  if 
you  considered  him  unworthy  of  you,  or  ceased  to  respect 
him. 

"  What  anguish  I  endured  when  the  truth  first  broke  upon 
me  that  you  did  really  love  another,  I  have  no  words  to 
relate.  All  the  world  seemed  a  chaos  of  blackness  and  con 
fusion  before  me ;  my  interest  in  everything  expired,  and 
in  my  grief  I  was  ready  to  tear  my  heart  from  my  bosom  ; 
but  reason,  governed  by  my  powerful  will,  came  once  more  to 
my  aid,  and  I  bent  my  whole  soul  to  her  stern  purposes. 
So  great  a  command  did  I  obtain  over  myself,  that  no  one, 
not  even  you,  Helen,  ever  dreamed  of  the  vulture  that  was 
consuming  me. 

"  Many  a  time,  my  Helen,  when  walking  by  your  side  in 
that  beautiful  paradise,  the  Common,  have  I  longed  to  fall  at 
your  feet,  to  confess  my  boundless  love  for  you,  and  to  im 
plore  you,  with  all  the  eloquence  which  I  possessed,  to  have 
pity  upon  my  sufferings,  to  give  me  relief,  if  but  for  a  mo 
ment;  —  but  I  have,  by  the  most  powerful  efforts,  restrained 
myself,  and  have  said  that  I  would  wait  for  the  end  of  the 
year  on  which  your  promise  was  given. 

"  One  week  ago,  Helen,  I  received  a  letter  from  my  cor 
respondent  in  the  east,  wherein  he  stated  to  me  that  he 
whom  you  loved  was  entirely  unworthy  of  you;  that  he 
was  a  compound  of  vanity  and  weakness ;  and  that,  if  possi 
ble,  the  connection  between  you  must  be  stopped.  I  had 
18 


206  BOSTON     COMMON. 

heard  the  same  story,  Helen,  a  hundred  times  before,  from 
your  guardian  and  friends ;  but  now,  receiving  confirmation 
from  a  person  whose  good  judgment  in  the  matter  I  could 
not  doubt,  I  believed.  The  idea  of  my  cherished  Helen,  her 
for  whom  I  would  willingly  have  died,  loving  a  silly,  brain 
less  fop,  who  would  make  her  miserable,  was  madness,  was 
death,  to  me.  I  resolved  to  claim  you  at  once  for  my  own,  — 
to  force  you  by  one  grand  action  to  promise  to  be  my  wife, 
and  then  to  urge,  and  induce  you  to  love  me  as  I  wished  to 
be  loved.  My  object  thus  far  is  accomplished.  I  have 
conquered ;  —  you  are  mine  as  far  as  your  word  goes,  and  I  do 
not  fear  for  that. 

"  Now,  Helen,  to  win  your  love.  And,  first,  I  shall  as 
sume  no  more  softness  with  you,  but  come  out  boldly  in  my 
own  true  colors;  shall  show  you  just  what  I  am,  —  a  stern, 
uncompromising  piece  of  humanity ;  cold  and  cruel  where  the 
object  of  my  affection  displeases  me,  or  acts  contrary  to  the 
rules  of  good  sense,  —  warm-hearted,  affectionate,  and  indul 
gent,  where  she  does  as  I  wish,  —  and  my  wishes  always  tend 
towards  her  good. 

"  I  shall  endeavor  to  keep  you,  Helen,  where  I  wish  you 
to  be,  now  that  you  are  mine.  You  are  quite  young,  and 
possess  many  faults;  little,  perhaps,  at  present,  but  which 
may,  by  neglect,  become  enormous.  These  faults  I  shall  take 
the  utmost  pains  to  eradicate  from  your  nature,  even  at  the 
expense  of  your  happiness  for  a  time ;  and,  in  order  to  gain 
power  over  you  sufficient  for  this  purpose,  I  shall  teach  you 
to*  fear  me  at  first,  to  tremble  at  my  coming,  and  to  strive  to 
be  and  do  the  thing  which  God  and  myself  require  of  you. 

"  Now,  dearest  Helen,  you  know  all,  —  my  love,  my  suffer- 


BOSTON     COMMON.  207 

ings,  trials,  and  success.  -Think  of  it  as  much  as  you  please, 
but  of  one  thing  be  assured,  —  for  it  is  inevitable,  fixed  as  the 
stars  :  mine  you  must  and  shall  be,  and  mine  willingly,  and 
with  your  whole  heart  also,  although  years  may,  and  proba 
bly  will,  pass  before  it  is  accomplished ;  for,  Helen,  a  strong 
trait  of  my  character  is  this :  when  I  fix  my  mind  upon  an 
object,  and  determine  to  attain  that  object,  I  persevere,  even 
until  death,  before  it  is  abandoned." 

He  ceased ;  but  the  words  he  had  uttered  had  burnt  each 
one  deep  into  my  heart  and  memory.  I  could  no  more  forget 
what  he  had  said  to  me  than  I  could  alter  the  position  of  the 
stars.  I  lay  back,  with  my  eyes  fixed  upon  his,  in  a  sort  of 
a  trance ;  and,  at  the  conclusion  of  his  long  speech,  bowed 
my  head  upon  my  hand,  and  yielded  to  my  fate  with  a  sort 
of  resignation  that  I  had  no  power  or  will  to  contend  with. 
I  felt  that  I  had  found  my  master,  —  that  a  strong  man  had 
got  me  into  his  power,  had  locked  me  in  a  cage  of  bars  and 
bolts,  and  that  it  was  of  no  use  for  me  to  beat  about,  or  try 
to  release  myself,  for  I  should  only  show  my  own  weakness 
and  his  power  thereby. 

For  a  long  time  after  Ernest  had  left  me  did  I  remain  in 
that  position,  scarcely  able  to  move  a  limb.  My  heart  seemed 
to  have  grown  old  suddenly,  and  to  have  withered  upon  its 
stem.  I  had  a  vague  sensation,  however,  that  I  should  yet 
arise  and  break  my  bondage.  But  not  now,  not  now  ;  —  it 
would,  in  my  present  state  of  mind,  be  too  much  for  me.  I 
was  sick  and  weak,  and  thereby  unable  to  contend  with 
Ernest. 

Another  feeling  had  also  taken  possession  of  my  mind.  In 
spite  of  his  cruelty  and  tyranny,  there  was  something  in  the 


208  BOSTON     COMMON. 

stern,  unbending  nature  of  my  cousin  that  just  suited  me ; 
something  in  my  own  composition  that  bounded  forward  to 
meet  this  bold  spirit  with  joy ;  something  that  greeted  and 
hugged,  even  with  transport,  the  hand  that  pained.  A  hun 
dred  times  I  asked  of  my  heart  the  question,  "  Have  I, 
then,  been  unfaithful  to  my  first  love  ?  Have  I  the  power  of 
transferring  my  affections  so  suddenly?"  I  assured  my 
self,  however,  by  considering  that  I  was  in  the  power  of  a 
nature  far  stronger  than  my  own,  and  that  there  was  not  the 
least  danger  of  my  ever  loving  him. 

After  many  hours  spent  in  a  tumult  of  bitter  feelings,  I 
arose  and  dragged  my  weary  frame  to  my  chamber,  where  I 
sought  my  couch,  and  endeavored  to  tranquillize  my  feelings 
by  sleep. 


CHAPTER    XXII. 

"  Through  the  heart 
Should  jealousy  its  venom  once  diffuse, 
*     *     ye  fairy  prospects,  then, 
Ye  beds  of  roses,  and  ye  bowers  of  joy, 
Farewell ;  ye  gloamings  of  departed  peace, 
Shine  out  your  last  the  yellow,  tinging  plague; 
Internal  vision  taints,  and  in  a  night 
Of  livid  gloom  Imagination  wraps." 

THOMSON. 

« 

I  AWOKE  in  the  morning  with  an  aching  brow,  and  a  pain 
ful  sense  of  tightness  about  my  chest,  which  increased  to 
such  a  degree  that  a  physician  was  called  in  before  noon  to 
administer  relief.  He  shook  his  head,  however,  when  he  had 
examined  my  pulse,  and,  saying  that  my  mind  was  troubled, 
left,  without  giving  me  any  medicine. 

My  uncle  and  aunt  then  sought  my  couch,  and  desired  me 
to  explain  to  them  the  cause  of  my  illness.  As  their  desires 
were  commands  with  me,  which  I  dared  not  disobey,  I  told 
them,  in  a  choking  voice,  that  I  had  the  night  before 
pledged  myself  to  become  the  wife  of  Ernest  Richmond ; 
that  I  loved  him  not,  but  had  been  forced  by  him  to  make 
this  promise. 

My  kind  friends  were  delighted  !  They  embraced  me  very 
18* 


210  BOSTON     COMMON. 

tenderly,  and  wished  me  all  sorts  of  happiness,  saying  that  I 
had  fulfilled  the  darling  wish  of  their  hearts ;  that  nothing 
could  have  given  them  greater  pleasure ;  and  that  I  was 
their  own  sensible  child,  after  all ! 

It  seemed  so  strange  to  me  that  they,  who  had  ever  been 
so  affectionate,  so  mindful  of  my  comfort  and  peace  of  mind, 
should  thus  rejoice  over  my  sufferings ;  and  the  question 
came  involuntarily  to  my  mind,  "  Is  it,  then,  true  that  they 
have  no  sympathy  for  me,  and  that  my  illness  is  rather  a 
source  of  pleasure  to  them  than  otherwise  ?  0,  Ernest, 
Ernest !  how  completely  have  you  enthralled  every  one  about 
you ! " 

In  the  evening  I  was  able  to  sit  up  in  aunt  Gertrude's 
easy-chair,  and  receive  my  intended  husband,  who  was  ex 
pected  every  moment.  He  had  not,  in  pity  to  his  over-sen 
sitive  feelings,  I  suppose,  been  informed  of  my  illness ;  and 
came  forward  with  real  concern  depicted  upon  his  countenance, 
which  changed,  however,  to  his  usual  expression,  as  he  per 
ceived  that  I  noticed  it. 

"  Good-evening,  Helen,"  said  he,  bending  his  eyes  inquir 
ingly  upon  me.  "  Are  you  ill  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  so,"  I  replied,  "  but  am  now  better." 

"  And  the  cause  ?  "  he  demanded,  still  gazing  earnestly  in 
my  face. 

I  could  not  deny  him  the  cause  of  my  illness,  or  assign 
any  other  reason  than  the  right  one ;  and  so,  as  if  in  obedi 
ence  to  his  look,  I  answered  that  our  interview  of  last  even 
ing,  and  its  consequences,  coming,  as  they  did,  so  unexpectedly 
upon  me,  had  quite  unnerved  me,  and  I  had  been  very  much 
indisposed  all  day. 


BOSTON     COMMON.  211 

"  This  is  foolishness,  Helen,"  he  answered.  "  You  must 
never  allow  your  nerves  to  get  possession  of  your  better 
judgment.  You  must  leave  off  being  so  romantic  as  to  faint 
and  sicken  at  every  wind  that  blows." 

"  I  have  suffered  se  much,  Ernest,"  I  replied,  "  that  I  am 
prone  to  grow  weak  and  sick  upon  every  occasion.  You 
must  learn  to  bear  with  me,  and  to  excuse  my  weakness." 

"  I  shall  not  excuse  your  faults  very  readily,"  he  replied. 
"  You  must  strive  to  correct  them  yourself,  nor  seek  for  n»y 
indulgence  towards  them,  and  then  you  will  be  too  happy  to 
weep  at  every  silly  trifle." 

"  But,  Ernest,  the  occurrence  of  last  evening  was  no 
trifle." 

"  It  was  a  disappointment,"  he  replied,  "  which  you  no 
doubt  keenly  felt.  You  had  made  up  your  mind  to  love 
another,  and  had  fixed  the  whole  affection  of  your  heart  upon 
that  other.  When,  therefore,  your  friends,  who  were  older 
and  wiser  than  yourself,  decided  that  you  must  abandon  your 
intentions,  your  high  spirit  rebelled  at  once.  I  own,  Helen, 
that  I  was  somewhat  taken  aback  by  your  hesitation.  That 
you,  with  your  high-toned  mind,  devotional  habits,  and  tender 
conscience,  shoi>ld  have  refused,  for  a  moment,  to  comply  with 
your  duty,  —  a  duty  which  you  owed  to  your  Maker,  your 
parents,  and  yourself,  —  and  also  that  you  should  refuse  to 
fulfil  your  written  promise,  quite  surprised  and  astonished 
me." 

I  shuddered,  as  Ernest  thus  conversed  to  me,  and  was  half 
tempted  to  exclaim,  "How  can  you  love,  yet  torture  me  so?  " 
but,  fearful  of  another  lecture,  1  forbore. 

The  next  day,  I  was  somewhat  surprised  at  receiving  a 


212  BOSTON     COMMON. 

letter  from  Mary  Listen.     I  opened  it,  and  read,  with  eager 
ness,  the  following : 

"  Linden,  April  9th,  18 — . 

"  DEAR  HELEN  :  You  may  think  it  strange  that  I  thus, 
and  for  the  first  time,  address  you  ;  but  we  have  been  friends 
from  infancy,  and  I  must,  relying  upon  your  goodness  of 
heart,  speak  to  you  concerning  a  subject  that  has  long  troubled 
me.  And,  first,  I  will  unfold  a  secret  of  my  own,  which  is 
(rf  vital  importance  to  me.  I  allude  to  my  predilection  for 
Roland  Hastings.  Yes,  Helen ;  from  the  first  time  that  I 
beheld  this  young  man,  I  loved  him,  and  loved  him  so  intensely 
that  every  feeling  of  my  nature  was  entirely  devoted  to 
him.  His  face  haunted  me  by  day,  and  was  ever  beside  my 
couch  during  the  silent  watches  of  the  night. 

"  With  what  anguish,  then,  did  I  notice  that  you  loved 
him  also,  Helen !  Your  advantages  of  family,  fortune,  and 
education,  were  superior  to  mine;  and  with  what  jealous  eyes 
did  I  watch  the  progress  of  this  love !  While  I  saw  with 
pain  that  your  interest  for  him  increased,  I  also  felt  a  secret 
delight  that  he  took  so  little  notice  of  you,  and  seldom  as 
much  as  of  myself. 

"  Time  passed,  and  you  were,  happily  for  my  peace,  sum 
moned  from  home.  I  was  thus  left  in  quiet  possession  of  my 
love  j  and  then  did  I  seek,  by  every  means  in  my  power,  to 
draw  from  him  his  exact  feelings  with  regard  to  you.  After 
a  long  time,  and  by  dint  of  continual  persuasion,  he  acknowl 
edged,  to  my  perfect  horror,  that  he  loved  you,  and  was  only 
waiting  a  favorable  opportunity  to  divulge  his  passion ! 

"  I  was  perfectly  infuriated ;  and,  in  the  wildness  of  my 
anguish,  whispered  words  into  his  ear  that  caused  him  to 


BOSTON     COMMON.  213 

experience  a  little  of  the  misery  that  racked  my  own  breast. 
I  hinted  to  him,  Helen,  that  you  were  not  worthy  of  him  ; 
also  that  you  had  had  a  lover  once,  who,  after  going  with 
you  for  a  while,  left  you  in  disgust  at  your  improper  con 
duct. 

"  All  this  I  hinted  to  him  in  a  manner  that  he  could  not 
gainsay.  Nor  did  I  stop  here.  I  also  told  him  that  I  had 
always  known  you ;  that  your  private  conduct  was  not  what 
the  world  supposed,  but  that  you  were  prone  to  evil  of  every 
kind.  I  bade  him  beware  of  you,  for  you  were  a  finished 
coquette,  and  that  it  was  your  greatest  pride  to  boast  of  your 
conquests ;  that  I  had  even  heard  you  say  that  you  should 
consider  it  a  great  glory  to  conquer  Roland  Hastings ;  and 
lastly,  Helen,  I  told  him  that  I  had  asked  you  if  you  would 
marry  him,  to  which  you  had  replied  that  you  would  not,  for 
worlds,  marry  a  man  so  inferior  to  you  in  wealth,  station,  &c. 

"  All  this  had  the  desired  effect  upon  my  listener.  His 
eyes  flashed  with  the  indignation  of  his  soul ;  and,  in  a  mo 
ment  of  frenzy,  he  took  my  hand,  and,  saying  that  I  was  the 
best  friend  he  had  in!  the  world,  offered  himself  for  my  ac 
ceptance. 

"  I  need  not  tell  you,  Helen,  how  gladly  I  accepted  the 
proffered  hand,  nor  how  soon  after  we  were  engaged.  I  was 
happy,  —  at  least,  as  happy  as  my  wicked  heart  would  allow 
me  to  be ;  and  when  Roland  proposed  carrying  you  to  that  ball, 
in  order,  as  he  said,  to  punish  you  for  your  presumption  in 
supposing  that  he  loved  you,  I  entered  into  the  cruel  plot 
with  the  greatest  relish,  and  bade  him  go.  Your  appearance 
at  the  ball,  however,  looking  so  light-hearted,  happy,  and 
gay,  smote  upon  my  conscience,  and  I  trembled  lest  some 


214  BOS  T- ON     COMMON. 

terrible  judgment  should  overtake  me  for  plotting  against 
your  peace.  I  was  informed,  the  next  day,  of  your  conversa 
tion  together.  I  feasted  upon  the  words ;  but  I  understood 
too  well  the  secret  of  your  emotion,  although  Roland  sup 
posed  it  occasioned  by  your  chagrin  and  disappointment,  in 
not  being  able,  after  all  your  exertions,  to  conquer  his  heart. 

"  After  this,  we  were  closer  friends  than  ever.  Roland 
was  all  attention,  all  kindness ;  and,  in  spite  of  my  dark  sin, 
I  was  perfectly  happy  when  with  him. 

"  Time  passed.  I  heard  no  more  of  you ;  but  I  had  no 
ticed,  at  times,  that  Roland  was  absent-minded  and  moody. 
I  attributed  this  to  anything  but  the  right  source,  and  tried 
to  persuade  myself  that  all  was  right.  At  length,  to  my  dis 
may,  you  returned  from  the  Glen,  and,  as  I  supposed,  to  re 
main  permanently.  One  day,  Roland  and  myself  were  seated 
beneath  a  tree.  He  was  twining  a  wreath  with  which  to 
deck  my  brow,  and  when  it  was  finished  he  placed  it  there, 
with  a  few  affectionate  words. 

"At  this  moment  I  heard  a  groan,  and,  looking  up  the 
height,  we  both  saw  you,  with  your  face  pale  as  death,  and 
eyes  wild  and  glassy,  gazing  fearfully  upon  us.  The  next 
moment,  you  had  buried  your  head  deep  in  Katherine  Mer- 
ton's  bosom,  and  she  was  endeavoring  to  bear  your  half-faint 
ing  form  from  the  spot. 

"  0,  Helen  !  I  shall  never  forget  that  moment.  It  was  the 
knell  to  my  happiness,  I  fear ;  for,  from  that  time,  Roland 
has  never  appeared  to  regard  me  as  before.  Your  whole  face 
and  attitude  indicated  that  you  loved  him,  and  I  think  he 
understood  it  perfectly. 

"  You  left,  Helen ;  but  you  were  fearfully  avenged,  for  I 


BOSTON     COMMON.  215 

have  never  known  a  moment's  peace  since,  and  Roland  has 
seemed,  for  months,  to  my  aching  fancy,  to  be  pondering  over 
that  mountain  scene  ;  and  it  is  quite  plain  to  me  that  he  is 
at  times  very  unhappy. 

"  Now,  Helen,  comes  the  worst  part  of  my  story.  Letitia 
Milford,  your  old  boarding-school  friend,  has,  during  the 
past  winter  visited  our  village  many  times,  accompanied  by 
a  youth  of  singular  beauty  and  attractions.  They  have 
attended  the  balls  and  parties  here,  and  have,  in  consequence, 
become  well  acquainted  with  both  Roland  and  myself. 

"  One  evening,  last  week,  I  was  startled  by  the  sudden 
appearance  of  Roland  in  my  room,  as  I  sat  at  work.  His 
hair  was  dishevelled,  and  his  eyes  were  wild  and  blood 
shot. 

"  '  Mary,'  exclaimed  he,  '  tell  me,  and  tell  me  truly,  have 
you  any  reason  to  suppose  that  Helen  Clifton  ever  loved 
me?' 

".I  glanced  at  him  in  fear.  '  The  truth,  Mary,'  continued 
he,  grasping  my  arm  violently. 

"  '  Well,  Roland,'  I  replied,  at  length,  with  an  indifference 
I  was  far  from  feeling,  '  you  behave  very  strangely.  What 
is  Helen  Clifton  to  you,  or  me,  that  you  should  thus  go  mad 
over  her  ? ' 

"  '  Mary,'  he  answered,  speaking  as  calmly  as  possible,  '  if 
you  have  deceived  me  in  regard  to  that  young  lady,  you  will 
suffer  for  it.  Tell  me,  at  once,  did  she  love  me  ?  ' 

"  '  Alas  !  Roland,'  I  sobbed,  '  I  know  not,  I  cannot  tell. 
Who  has  said  aught  to  you  concerning  this  ?  ' 

"  '  Letitia  Milford,'  ,he  gloomily  replied,  '  has,  from  time  to 
time,  hinted  as  much  to  me ;  and,  only  this  evening,  did  she 


216  BOSTON     COMMON. 

give  me  a  long  account  of  that  accursed  night  at  the  ball, 
when,  as  she  said,  poor  Helen  came  very  near  dying  upon 
the  floor.  Helen  is  a  girl  of  too  much  mind  to  love  lightly ; 
and,  by  heavens,  Mary  Listen,  if  you  have  harmed  a  hair  of 
her  head,  you  will  rue  it ! ' 

"  I  was  shocked,  horrified,  for  a  few  moments.  My  powers 
of  persuasion  seemed  to  have  deserted  me,  but  I  attempted  to 
soothe  the  irritated  man.  '  How  have  I  offended  you,  dear 
est  Roland  ? '  I  asked ;  '  and  how  can  I  again  be  reinstated 
in  your  favor  ?  ' 

"  '  There  is  but  one  way,  Mary,'  he  replied.  '  If  you  have 
told  the  truth  concerning  Miss  Clifton,  all  will  be  right. 
I  have  revealed  to  Letitia  all  you  said  to  me  about  her,  and 
she  will  soon  hear  of  it.  If  you  have  wronged  her,  then  fare 
well,  Mary,  for  Helen  shall  be  avenged ! ' 

"  I  sat  like  one  turned  to  stone.  My  cheek  was  blanched 
with  terror,  and  a  nervous  excitement  thrilled  through  my 
veins  like  lava.  Roland  was,  happily  for  me,  too  much 
absorbed  in  his  own  feelings  to  notice  mine,  and  so  we 
parted.  But,  0,  Helen,  the  utmost  misery,  the  utmost 
wretchedness,  has  since  been  mine.  You  know  not,  you  can 
not  conceive,  how  I  suffer.  I  have  slandered  you  to  one 
whom  you  love ;  whose  good  opinion  you  would,  perhaps,  die 
to  obtain  ;  and  have,  by  winning  words,  bound  the  unwilling 
Hastings  to  my  side.  I  have  told  many  untruths,  and  I 
much  fear  that  my  wickedness  is  too  great  to  be  pardoned. 
But,  Helen,  listen  to  me  a  moment,  and  turn  not  away,  in 
loathing,  from  one  who  already  loathes  herself.  If  you  pos 
sess,  as  they  say  you  do,  the  spirit  of  religion,. —  if  you  have 
the  love  and  fear  of  Grod  constantly  before  your  eyes,  —  I  be- 


BOSTON     COMMON.  217 

seech  you  to  forgive  the  deadly  wrong  I  have  done  you,  and 
on  my  knees  I  entreat  you  to  keep  it  entirely  from  Roland. 
Do  not  let  him  know  one  word  of  this  letter,  or  of  the  one 
which  you  will  receive  from  Miss  Milford.  In  pity,  expose 
not  my  weakness,  my  wickedness,  to  one  whom  I  so  madly 
love. 

"  0,  Helen,  consider !  You  are  wealthy,  and  have  a  hun 
dred  friends  about  you.  Rumor  says  you  are  engaged  to  one 
who  has  long  loved  and  is  every  way  worthy  of  you.  0,  then, 
with  all  these  inestimable  gifts  about  you,  deprive  me  not  of 
uay  sole  means  of  existence,  my  all !  Dear  Helen,  let  me 
entreat  of  you  to  return  good  for  evil !  Do  me  not,  by  a 
few  words  of  yours,  this  irreparable  injury ;  for,  if  I  lose 
Roland,  I  shall  assuredly  die.  By  one  word  of  yours  Ro 
land  would  be  at  your  side,  for  he  dearly  loves  you.  But 
consider,  Helen,  he  is  my  betrothed  husband  in  the  sight  of 
God  and  man.  Once  more  I  beseech  you  to  spare  my  life, 
and  forgive  me,  as  you  wish  to  be  forgiven. 

"  From  the  unhappy 

"  MARY."     , 

The  paper  fell  from  my  paralyzed  hands.  A  wild  ray  of 
joy  shot  through  my  heart,  as  I  thought  of  the  words  "  Ro 
land  dearly  loves  you ;  "  and  a  strong  feeling  of  indignation 
pervaded  my  whole  breast,  as  I  determined  upon  retaliating, 
and  severely  too,  upon  the  author  of  all  my  misery. 

"  Yes,"  said  I,  pacing  the  floor,  in  a  wild  excitement,  "  she 

has  caused  me  weeks  and  months  of  untold  anguish  j,  all  my 

bitter  tears  have  been  shed  through  her  means.     She  has 

uttered  base  words  in  the  ears  of  one  whose  good  opinion  I 

19 


218  BOSTON     COMMON. 

would,  indeed,  have  died  to  obtain  ;  and  dearly  shall  she  pay 
for  it !  But  stop  !  "  I  continued,  as  a  fearful  sense  of  my  situ 
ation  rushed  upon  me ;  "  I  am  already  engaged,  and  to  one 
who  will  never  release  me.  I  cannot,  alas !  ever  marry 
Roland.  0,  had  this  letter  but  come  one  week  sooner !  'T  is 
now  too  late,  and  that  vile  Mary  Listen  will  yet  marry  my 
idol." 

I  threw  myself  upon  the  sofa.  My  passion  was  fast  get 
ting  the  upper  hand  of  my  reason,  and  I  Was  rapidly  yielding 
to  an  unwarrantable  burst  of  temper.  Just  then,  aunt  Glen- 
more  entered  the  room. 

"Why",  Helen,  child,"  said  she,  "what  is  the  matter  now? 
you  appear  quite  angry  about  something." 

I  turned  away  my  blushing  face,  and  she  continued  :  "  I 
am  afraid  you  are  not  in  a  frame  of  mind  to  hear  of  a  very 
pleasant  surprise  I  have  in  store  for  you." 

"  What  is  it,  aunt  Gertrude  ?  "  I  asked,  without  evincing 
much  curiosity,  however. 

"  Your  cousin  Harry,"  she  replied,  "  has  just  arrived, 
and  inquired  for  you.  Shall  I  tell  him  that  you  are  in 
dulging  in  a  fit  of  temper,  and  cannot  see  him  at  present  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  dear  aunt,"  I  quickly  replied ;  "  tell  him  any 
thing  but  that.  How  long  is  he  to  remain  in  Boston,  and 
what  is  the  state  of  his  health  ?  " 

"  His  health  is  exceedingly  delicate,"  she  answered,  "  and 
his  physicians  have  advised  him  to  leave  his  studies,  and 
to  travel  a  while.  We  are  going  with  him  soon  to  Niagara 
Falls,  and  of  course  my  Helen  wishes  to  be  one  of  the 
party." 


BOSTON     COMMON.  219 

"  0,  delightful,  aunt  Gertrude  !  "  I  replied.  "  When  do  we 
start?" 

"  In  June ;  but  come  away  now  and  see  Harry.  He  is 
very  anxious  to  behold  you  once  more." 

I  followed  rny  aunt  quickly  to  her  parlor,  and  had  the 
happiness  of  seeing  the  same  calm,  spiritual  face,  and  hearing 
once  more  the  tones  of  that  voice,  that  had  brought  such 
comfort  to  my  heart  in  days  gone  by. 

"  Dear  Harry,"  and  "  dear  Helen,"  was  all  we  could  say, 
as  we  warmly  embraced.  Harry  looked  much  paler  and 
thinner  than  when  I  last  saw  him  ;  but  the  same  holy  light 
beamed  in  the  eyes,  the  same  calm  smile  lingered  around  the 
mouth. 

"  0,  Harry,"  said  I,  after  a  while,  "  I  have  so  much  to  tell 
you,  so  much  to  confess,  so  many  wanderings  to  deplore,  that 
I  am  half  ashamed  to  commence." 

"I  trust  you  have  committed  no  wilful  errors ?"  Harry 
mildly  asked. 

"  0,  I  hope  not,  Harry,"  I  replied ;  "  but  I  have  such  a 
temper,  that  is  always  rising  when  I  least  expect  it,  and  so 
many  crosses  a.re  clustering  around  my  path !  " 

"  I  trust  you  remember  who  sends  afflictions,  Helen,  and 
also  that  it  is  our  duty  to  try  and  bear  these  trials  with  as 
'much  fortitude  as  possible  ?  " 

"  0  yes,  Harry,  I  know  all  this ;  but  it  is  so  very  hard  to 
do  right,  always  !  " 

Harry  made  no  reply,  but  appeared  quite  grave  for  a  long 
time.  That  evening,  upon  retiring  to  my  room,  I  sat  down 
and  indited  the  following  epistle  to  Letitia. 


220  BOSTON     COMMON. 

"  Boston,  April  12th,  18—. 
"DEAR  LETISE: 

"  And  so,  in  spite  of  all  your  sacred  promises,  your  unwa 
vering  friendship,  and  your  undying  love,  you  have  betrayed 
me,  and  to  Roland  !  You  have  told  him  of  my  early  pas 
sion  ;  you  have  descanted  largely  upon  the  unbounded  love 
I  once  bore  him,  and  have  entered,  with  your  eloquent  tongue, 
into  all  the  particulars  of  my  chamber  and  carpet  scene.  A 
pretty  friend  are  you,  truly,  and  one  to  whom  I  shall  be 
quite  likely  to  reveal  my  secrets  again  in  a  hurry !  You 
never  supposed  I  should  discover  this,  did  you?  and  so,  in 
this  supposition,  remained  quite  at  your  ease ! 

"  Well,  Letise,  for  the  sake  of  your  love  of  talking,  and 
also  in  consideration  of  a  service  you  have  unwittingly  done 
me  thereby,  I  forgive  you ;  only  be  careful  in  future,  and 
make  no  professions  of  love  or  friendship  that  you  cannot 
abide  by. 

"  Please  consider  me  in  a  pet  just  now,  and  excuse  me,  for 
the  sake  of  yours,  as  ever,  HELEN." 

I  despatched  this  the  next  morning,  and  then  tried  to  pre 
pare  a  suitable  answer  to  Mary's  letter.  Before  writing, 
however,  I  resolved  to  have  a  talk  with  cousin  Harry,  and 
sought  him,  therefore,  for  that  purpose.  I  found  him  in  his 
mother's  room  alone,  and  reading. 

"  Harry,"  said  I,  "  I  have  come  to  talk  a  while  with  you. 
Are  you  at  liberty  to  listen  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  he  replied,  closing  his  book,  and  leaning  back 
in  the  easy-chair ;  "  I  am  always  happy  to  converse  with 
you,  Nellie." 


BOSTON     COMMON.  221 

"  Harry,"  I  softly  began,  "  I  have  been  very  unhappy  since 
I  saw  you  last,  and  my  misery  was  all  occasioned  by  one 
person,  a  young  girl  of  my  acquaintance.  She  has  deeply 
wronged  me,  and  every  bitter  tear  1  ever  shed  was  caused  by 
her.  Yes,  Harry,"  I  continued,  in  a  louder  tone,  "  I  was  a 
glad  and  happy  child,  until  she  poisoned  my  whole  existence, 
put  out  the  light  of  hope  from  my  path,  and  rendered  my 
life  a  burden,  which,  but  for  her,  might  have  been  so  useful, 
so  happy.  And  now,  Harry,  I  am  going  to  pay  her  back  in 
her  own  coin.  I  have  it  in  my  power  to  stop  all  the  fountains 
of  her  peace,  to  darken  her  whole  existence,  and,  in  short,  to 
render  her  life  as  wretched  as  she  has  made  mine ;  and  I  will 
do  it.  Yes,  even  now  —  " 

I  stopped ;  for  Harry  had  arisen  from  his  chair,  and  was 
gazing  earnestly  in  my  face. 

"  Is  this  my  friend  Helen,"  said  he,  "  that  was  wont  to  be 
so  mild  and  forgiving?  Do  that  contracted  brow,  those 
flashing  eyes,  and  that  \nouth,  breathing  out  vengeance,  be 
long  to  Helen  Clifton,  who  has  promised  to  live  all  her  life 
in  the  love  and  fear  of  God?  Do  I  really  see  and  hear 
aright  ?  " 

I  was  much  abashed,  but  answered,  in  a  somewhat  subdued 
tone,  "  Why,  Harry,  she  has  cruelly  slandered  me,  and  to  one 
whose  good  opinion  I  would  have  bartered  life  to  obtain. 
What  am  I  to  do  in  this  case  ?  Sit  down  and  bear  all  the 
wrongs  she  has  heaped  upon  me  in  silence  ?  " 

"No,  certainly  not,"  answered  Harry;  "but  explain  to 
me,  Helen,  and  I  will  endeavor  to  advise  you  the  best  means 
to  pursue." 

"  Listen,  Harry.  I  have,  or  had,  a  very  dear  friend,  whom 
19* 


222  BOSTON     COMMON. 

I  sincerely  loved,  and  with  whom  I  wished  to  pass  my  life. 
Well,  just  when  I  was  at  the  very  acme  of  happiness,  just 
when  I  supposed  myself  quite  sure  of  my  prize,  it  was  rudely 
snatched  from  my  grasp.  In  my  disappointment  and  agony, 
I  sought  you,  dear  Harry ;  and  you  breathed  words  of  peace 
into  my  heart ;  you  held  out  to  me  the  consolations  of  reli 
gion,  and  bade  me  live  and  be  happy  once  more. 

"  Well,  Harry,  time  went  on.  I  was  quiet  and  calm,  and, 
in  the  exercise  of  my  new  duties,  forgot,  for  ft  while,  my 
misery.  I  came  to  this  city,  and  entered  into  novel  scenes 
and  pleasures.  Still,  the  memory  of  the  loved  one  would 
creep  in  at  times,  and  render  me  sick  at  heart.  I  was  just 
beginning  to  be  calm  once  more,  when  this  letter  came  to  me," 
I  continued,  as  I  placed  it  in  his  hand.  "  Read,  and  see  how 
I  have  been  wronged." 

Harry  took  the  letter,  and  read  it  through  to  the  end. 
"  My  poor  Helen,"  said  he,  "  you  have  suffered,  and  much 
more  than  I  was  aware  of.  I  grieve  for  you  sincerely.  But 
now  for  the  poor  girl,  upon  whom  you  are  so  anxious  to  be 
avenged.  What  is  it  you  wish  to  do  to  her?  Is  she  not 
already  suffering,  even  more  than  yourself?  for,  in  addition 
to  her  other  troubles,  she  bears  the  pangs  of  a  wounded  con 
science.  Are  you  not,  as  she  says,  already  avenged  ?  And 
can  you,  with  all  your  means  of  happiness,  with  your  innu 
merable  blessings,  wish  to  wreak  a  few  moments'  passion  upon 
a  poor  creature,  who  has  come  out  and  frankly  confessed  all 
to  you  ?  Would  this  be  acting  the  part  of  a  kind,  generous 
nature,  think  you  ?  Would  not  you  wrong  your  own  heart  ? 
Could  you  so  far  forget  yourself  as  to  think,  for  a  moment, 
of  such  a  thing  ?  " 


BOSTON      COMMON.  223 

"  But,  Harry,  consider.  She  has  deeply  injured  and  re 
viled  me." 

"  Who  is  it,  Helen,  that  has  said,  '  When  ye  are  reviled, 
revile  not  again  '  ?  Who  has  commanded  us  to  forgive  our 
brother  until  seventy  times  seven  ?  And  can  I  believe  that 
you,  Helen,  whose  sins  have  been  washed  in  the  blood  of  the 
Lamb,  —  can  I  believe,  I  say,  that  you  could  so  far  forget 
yourself  and  your  divine  Master  as  to  seek  for  revenge  upon 
a  poor,  erring  mortal,  who,  unlike  yourself,  has  probably 
never  had  any  religious  instruction,  and  who,  in  the  bitter 
anguish  of  her  heart,  has,  as  a  last  hope,  placed  herself  en 
tirely  in  your  power,  and  cried  to  you  for  mercy  ?  No, 
Helen ;  I  see  that  your  whole  nature  revolts  at  the  idea  of 
such  an  action ;  you  are  shocked  when  I  place  the  subject 
thus  boldly  before  you  ;  you  see  plainly  that  it.  would  be  act 
ing  an  ungenerous,  as  well  as  a  wicked  part." 

"  I  do,  indeed,"  I  replied ;  "  but  must  I  sit  down  and 
write  her  that  I  have  forgiven  her  all,  when  I  have  not  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not,"  he  answered.  "  Write  no  such  thing, 
unless  you  feel  it.  But  why  not  forgive  her.  Helen  ?  Has 
not  God  forgiven  your  sins,  and  those  of  far  greater  enormity 
than  the  one  you  are  now  called  upon  to  forgive  ?  Have 
you  not  sinned  against  him  all  your  life  ?  Are  you  not  daily, 
I  might  say  hourly,  transgressing  some  law  of  his  ?  Do  you 
not  nightly  have  cause  to  implore,  with  tears  of  contrition, 
the  forgiveness  of  your  heavenly  Father  ?  And  will  you 
slight  one  such  petition,  breathed  in  bitter  anguish,  by  a 
mortal  as  sinful  and  erring,  and  perhaps  as  penitent,  as  your 
self?  " 

"  0,  Harry  !  "  I  sobbed,  "  I  will  forgive  her ;  I  will  pardon 


224  BOSTON     COMMON. 

her  freely ;  but  the  sacrifice  is  great,  and  leaves  me  without 
the  power  of  reinstating  myself  in  Roland's  favor.  Must  I 
forever  be  the  subject  of  his  suspicions,  when,  by  one  little 
word,  I  could  bring  him  to  my  feet?  " 

Harry  mused  a  while.  "  Your  own  good  sense  must  guide 
you  in  this,"  said  he.  "  You  can  forgive  her,  and  say  nothing 
about  your  own  troubles.  Should  Holand  question  you,  tell 
him  the  truth,  of  course ;  should  he  not,  you  may  as  well  be 
silent,  and  thus,  in  the  language  of  Scripture,  heap  coals  of 
fire  upon  your  enemy's  head."  . 

"  But  I  might  be  so  happy,  so  blest,"  said  I,  "  were  it  not 
for  this  cruel  destiny !  " 

"  Helen,"  said  Harry,  "  I  now  understand  your  situation 
exactly.  You  are  placed  in  a  thorny  path,  my  poor  child, 
and  need  a  strong  guiding  hand.  But,  remember,  you  are  a 
betrothed  wife,  and  as  such  your  first  duty  is  to  your  intend 
ed  husband.  Mary  Listen  is  also  betrothed ;  and  you  have 
no  more  right  to  sever  those  ties,  than  she  had  to  slander  you 
to  Roland.  Try,  Helen,  and  fulfil  your  duty  in  every  point. 
There  is  much  demanded  of  you,  my  dear  cousin ;  but,  if  the 
sacrifice  is  great,  the  reward  will  be  so  likewise.  You  must 
earnestly  entreat  God,  Nellie,  to  aid  you  in  this  difficulty. 
He  will  lend  a  listening  ear  to  your  cries,  and  grant  you  that 
peace  that  the  world  cannot  take  away." 

I  thanked  Harry  for  his  kind  advice,  and,  taking  the  let 
ter,  sought  my  own  chamber.  Here  I  examined  my  heart 
faithfully,  and  firmly  determined  to  do  as  he  had  counselled. 

Feeling  still  some  marks  of  my  stubborn  will,  I  knelt,  and 
poured  forth  my  whole  heart  in  a  prayer  to  God.  I  laid  be 
fore  him  my  injuries,  my  sufferings,  my  temptations.  I  im- 


BOSTON      COMMON.  225 

plored  him  to  enable  me  to  make  a  complete  sacrifice  of  my 
own  feelings,  and  to  do  all  in  my  power  to  restore  peace  once 
more  to  the  bosom  of  her  who  had  acted  so  basely  towards 
me.  I  arose,  calm,  strong,  and  refreshed  :  and,  sitting  down 
to  my  desk,  indited  the  following  to  Miss  Liston  : 

"  Boston,  April  I3th,  18—. 
"  MY  DEAB  MARY  : 

"  I  received  your  letter  yesterday,  and  was  exceedingly 
surprised  at  the  contents.  I  will  own,  Mary,  that  your  con 
duct  has  made  me  very  unhappy  in  times  past ;  for  I  did 
love  Roland  Hastings,  and  wished  him  to  think  well  of  me. 
However,  that  is  past,  and  I  am  ready  to  forgive  you,  even 
as  I  hope  to  be  forgiven  by  my  heavenly  Father.  But,  Mary, 
never  be  guilty  of  the  like  again  ;  do  not  such  wickedness  ; 
seek  not  to  wrong  another.  Such  actions  inevitably  recoil 
upon  our  own  heads.  Pray  to  God  every  day  for  a  better 
spirit,  and  ask  him  to  forgive  you.  He  will  listen  to  the 
simplest  petition,  if  breathed  in  the  spirit  of  faith  and  peni 
tence.  Remember  all  I  have  said  to  you,  and  go  and  sin  no 
more.  Affectionately,  HELEN." 

I  laid  this  little  letter  humbly  before  my  Maker,  and  asked 
him  if  I  had  done  right,  —  if  the  sacrifice  was  complete.  I 
thanked  him  for  the  power,  lent  me  from  on  high,  to  enable 
me  to  accomplish  such  an  action ;  and,  full  of  peace  such  as 
I  had  not  enjoyed  for  a  long  time,  I  despatched  my  letter  by 
a  servant  to  the  office. 

But  my  trials  were  not  destined  to  end  here.  A  few  days 
afterwards,  I  received  another  letter,  in  the  hand-writing  of 


226  BOSTON     COMMON. 

Roland  himself.  It  was  the  first  one  I  had  ever  received 
from  that  source,  and  I  half  raised  it  to  my  lips  to  kiss  it ; 
but  just  then  the  words  "Ernest,  I  will  be  yours,"  rose  in 
my  mind,  and,  determining  to  be  faithful,  even  in  little  things, 
I  hastily  unclosed  and  read  the  following  : 

"Linden,  April  I4tk,  18  — . 
"  Miss  H.  CLIFTON  : 

"  I  trust  you  will  pardon  me  for  the  liberty  I  take  in  thus 
addressing  you,  and  also  the  question  I  am  about  to  propose. 

"  It  is  due  to  certain  feelings  I  have  suffered  on  your 
account  that  you  should  give  me  a  correct  answer  to  a 
rumor  that  is  afloat  in  this  vicinity.  It  is  said  that  you  are 
engaged  to  be  married  to  your  cousin,  Ernest  Richmond. 
May  I  dare  ask  you  for  the  truth  of  this  report  ?  If  so,  I 
have  nothing  further  to  say  than  to  again  beg  pardon  for  my 
seeming  impertinence.  Should  it  not  be  true,  you  will  again 

hear  from  yours,  respectfully,  ROLAND  HASTINGS." 

x 

For  more  than  an  hour  after  I  received  this  missive  did  I 
pace  my  chamber  to  and  fro,  in  the  wild  irresolution  of  grief. 
Sometimes  I  resolved  to  defy  Ernest,  Mary,  and  the  whole 
world,  and,  flying  to  Roland,  tell  him  that  I  would  be  his,  and 
only  his ;  but  duty  would  here  step  in,  and,  with  a  stern,  for 
bidding  front,  reprove  me  severely  for  my  dereliction. 

"  Roland  loves  me,"  thought  I,  "  and  must  I  give  him  up? 
Will  it  be  acting  the  part  of  a  Christian  ?  Shall  I  not  con 
demn  him  to  unhappiness,  as  well  as  myself?  " 

Again  did  I  have  recourse  to  prayer.  Again  did  I  wres 
tle  with  God  for  strength  to  carry  me  safely  through  this 


BOSTON     COMMON.  227 

dark,  this  thorny  way ;  and  again  did  I  find  peace  in  his 
blessed  promises.  It  was  plainly  set  before  me  what  I  must 
do.  1  sought  Ernest,  and,  in  a  firm,  unwavering  tone,  told 
him  all.  I  commenced  with  the  first  time  I  had  ever  be 
held  Roland,  until  the  last.  I  told  him  all  my  disappoint 
ment  and  anguish,  —  dwelling  but  lightly  upon  the  latter,  how 
ever,  —  and  in  conclusion  showed  him  the  two  letters  I  had 
received  from  Roland  and  Mary. 

He  listened  eagerly  to  my  statements,  read  the  letters 
through  minutely  to  the  end,  but  made  no  comment,  except 
ing  to  rise,  when  he  had  concluded,  and  place  pen,  ink,  and 
paper,  before  me. 

"  What  is  this  for,  Ernest  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  I  wish  you  to  finish  this  business,"  he  replied,  "  by 
answering  Hastings'  letter." 

"  What  shall  I  say,  Ernest  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  Just  what  you  please,"  he  replied,  taking  up  a  book ; 
"  only  be  quick." 

I  seized  the  pen,  and,  with  an  unfaltering  hand,  wrote  the 
following : 

"  ROLAND  HASTINGS,  ESQ. 

"  SIR  :  I  received  your  note  with  considerable  surprise, 
and  perused  its  contents  with  much  more.  If  it  will  be  any 
satisfaction  to  you  to  be  assured  of  a  certain  matter,  know, 
then,  that  I  am  the  affianced  wife  of  Ernest  Richmond. 

"I  am,  sir,  yours,  &c., 

"HELEN  CLIFTON." 

I  placed  the  note  in  Ernest's  hand,  who  glanced  eagerly 


228  BOSTON     COMMON. 

over  its  contents.  "  My  own  noble  Helen,"  he  exclaimed, 
clasping  me  in  his  arms,  "  you  are  as  brave  a  little  spirit  as 
I  ever  met  with.  God  bless  you !  " 

I  thought  him  uncommonly  calm.  I  had  expected  he 
would  be  furious,  but  he  had  probably  learned  as  much  as  I 
had  told  him  from  some  other  source,  and  it  was,  consequent 
ly,  nothing  new  to  him. 

Was  I  happy,  now  that  my  task  was  accomplished,  —  now 
that  I  had,  by  one  word,  thrown  Roland's  love  forever  from 
me  ?  I  felt,  it  is  true,  a  calm  peace,  in  the  knowledge  that  I 
had  done  my  duty ;  my  conscience  was  at  rest ;  but  I  had  to 
struggle  daily  at  the  foot  of  the  Cross  for  strength  to  feel 
entirely  submissive  to  God's  will. 

What  sweet  hours  did  I  now  enjoy  in  Harry  Glenmore's 
society !  He  was  ever  talking  and  encouraging  me,  in  his 
mild,  patient  way,  and  striving  to  strengthen  me,  in  the  path 
I  had  chosen.  Sometimes,  when  I  sat  thinking  of  my  past 
life,  and  its  one  bitter  trial,  I  would  feel  my  heart  rebel ; 
and  then  would  I  seek  Harry's  side,  and  in  his  holy  conversa 
tion  feel,  indeed,  that  the  sorrows  of  this  life  were  as  nothing 
compared  with  the  joys  of  that  bright  world  for  which  we 
were  struggling. 

Harry  was  fast  ripening  for  heaven.  His  cough  had  be 
come  fearful,  and  he  was  hastening  down  to  the  grave,  in  all 
the  glory  of  his  youth  and  beauty.  As  I  sat  by  his  side, 
listening  to  his  sweet  discourse,  I  felt  as  though  every  mo 
ment  which  could  be  spared  from  my  studies  must  be 
devoted  to  him ;  for  I  looked  forward  to  the  time  when  I 
should  no  longer  listen  to  the  tones  of  that  voice,  or  be  en 
couraged  by  the  cheering  wotds  of  that  bright  spirit. 


BOSTON     COMMON.  229 

In  consequence  of  Harry's  fast-declining  health,  our  visit 
to  Niagara  was  postponed.  Our  hotel  was  situated  near  the 
Common,  and  Harry's  room  exactly  opposite  it,  where  he 
could  lie  daily  with  his  face  turned  towards  it,  and  breathe 
the  refreshing  breezes  from  that  sweet  place.  It  was  one  of 
his  greatest  pleasures  to  be  allowed  to  walk  slowly  by  my 
side  in  this  place  on  fine  mornings,  and  in  this  manner  did 
we  pass  many  hours  of  tranquil  delight.  Dear  Harry !  the 
earth  has  long  since  closed  over  thy  bright  form  ;  the  hand 
that  so  softly  clasped  mine,  as  we  wound  slowly  through  the 
paths  of  our  favorite  retreat,  and  the  gentle,  manly  voice,  are 
all  hushed  in  the  silent  tomb  ;  but  the  memory  of  those  days 
will  never  be  effaced  from  my  mind,  and  the  truths  thou 
didst  then  engrave  upon  that  mind  will  be  as  enduring  as 
eternity. 

20 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 

"  In  her  ears  the  sound 
Yet  rung  of  his  persuasive  words,  impregned 
With  reason  to  her  seeming,  and  with  truth." 

MILTON. 

FOR  some  time  past  Ernest,  in  consideration  of  my  trouble, 
had  forborne  to  torture  me ;  but  as  the  weeks  went  on,  and  I 
appeared  to  feel  so  much  calmer,  he  recommenced  his  assumed 
surveillance  and  guardianship  of  me,  in  good-earnest.  I  had 
always,  since  the  first  night  of  my  engagement,  felt  a  slight 
fear  of  him,  which  he  took  care  to  increase,  as  he  expected 
thereby  to  have  a  much  easier  task  in  correcting  my  faults. 
I  did  fear  Ernest.  I  saw  in  him  the  seeds  of  a  good  and 
great  nature,  —  a  bold,  free,  independent  spirit,  which  scorned 
to  do  a  mean  action,  and  a  powerful  will  to  control  and  resist 
temptation.  It  seemed  as  though  he  spurned  weakness  of  all 
sorts  from  his  path.  Of  course  I  esteemed  and  respected 
such  a  character,  —  one  who  had,  or  seemed  to  have,  so  per 
fect  a  control  over  himself;  for  I  loved,  nay,  reverenced, 
strength  and  goodness,  in  whatever  form  they  presented 
themselves. 

It  is  not  at  all  strange  that,  valuing  his  good  opinion  so 


BOSTON     COMMON.  231 

highly,  I  should  be  very  much  pained  when  he  reproved  me 
for  my  faults.  He  was  quite  different  from  Harry.  He 
never  sought  to  correct  an  error  in  a  mild,  Christian-like  way, 
but  would  present  the  worst  side  of  the  subject  to  me  at  once, 
and,  with  a  stern,  forbidding  manner,  reprove  me  severely 
for  it,  and  command  me  to  do  differently. 

I  respected  Ernest,  as  I  said  before,  but  still  I  did  not  love 
him.  He  was  cold,  or  seemed  to  be;  and,  although  he  loved 
with  perhaps  more  fervor  than  man  ever  loved  before,  he 
would  inflict  the  greatest  suffering  upon  me,  wound  me  by  the 
coldest  language  and  conduct,  and  then  leave  me  in  tears. 

I  could  never  compromise  with  Ernest.  I  could  only  win 
his  approbation  by  a  calm,  dignified  exterior,  a  lady-like  de 
meanor,  and  a  constant  watch  over  myself,  to  see  that  no 
word  escaped  me  which  might  cause  him  to  frown  upon  me. 
A  want  of  all  these  little  things  in  me  was  considered  a  fault 
in  Ernest's  eyes,  which  I  was  obliged  to  correct,  or  receive 
the  utmost  coldness  and  disapprobation  from  him. 

"  Little  things,  my  Helen,"  said  he,  one  day,  to  me, 
"  make  up  the  sum  and  happiness  of  life.  The  whole  world 
is  composed  of  atoms — the  years  of  months,  the  months 
of  days,  and  the  days  of  minutes.  When  I  first  knew  you, 
Helen,  you  were,  or  seemed  to  be,  absorbed  in  some  deep 
grief.  I  often  found  you  in  a  revery,  or  in  tears.  The 
outward  world  seemed  to  possess  no  charms  for  you;  you 
were  ready  to  give  up  in  despair.  It  was  then  that  I  noticed 
the  faults  of  your  character,  which  I  supposed  had  sprung  up 
rapidly  like  weeds  in  your  mind,  and  grown  almost  to  matu 
rity  without  your  being  aware  of  it.  You  were  very  care 
less  as  to  your  personal  appearance ;  your  dress  was  often 


232  BOSTON     COMMON. 

soiled;  your  shoes  untied;  your  hair,  which,  with  proper  atten 
tion,  might  be  made  to  curl  and  look  so  beautifully,  was  gen 
erally  left  floating  over  your  shoulders  in  the  utmost  disorder; 
and  many  a  time,  when  we  were  going  out  in  haste,  did  you 
make  me  wait,  while  you  pulled  over  a  dozen  boxes  or  draw 
ers  to  find  a  pair  of  gloves,  or  a  handkerchief;  and  when  the 
gloves  were  found,  they  were  generally  in  such  a  shocking 
condition  that  I  was  half  ashamed  to  be  seen  walking  with 
you.  Again,  your  dress,  although  always  made  of  beautiful 
material,  was  either  dirty,  torn,  or  out  of  order  in  some  way, 
so  that  you  generally  presented  a  most  forlorn  appearance. 

"  I  noticed  also,  with  pain,  that  you  seemed  not  to  have 
the  least  care  or  thought  of  these  things.  Although  you 
always  saw  me  neat  and  well  dressed,  it  never  seemed  to  occur 
to  you  that  it  was  a  duty  which  you  owed  both  yourself  and 
me  to  make  such  an  appearance  as  would  not  disgrace  the 
man  with  whom  you  walked ;  but,  on  the  contrary,  you  ap 
peared  so  absorbed  in  your  reveries,  that  all  thought  of  your 
dress  was  discarded  from  your  mind. 

"  I  do  not  like  to  see  a  lady  think  too  much  of  dress,  —  to 
make  it  her  highest  aim  to  dress,  only  for  the  sake  of  attract 
ing  attention  from  every  one  whom  she  meets ;  but,  still,  a 
proper  regard  for  dress  is  necessary,  and  highly  essential  to 
our  happiness,  and  certainly  to  our  respect.  You  might 
apologize  by  saying  that  you  did  not  care  how  you  looked, 
that  you  had  no  time  to  attend  to  such  things,  &c. ;  but  it  is 
only  necessary  to  be  active,  to  be  up  and  doing  while  the 
day  lasts;  and,  in  short,  to  leave  no  moment  of  time  un 
employed. 

"  Above  all  things,  Helen,  a  strict  regard  to  order  is  essen- 


BOSTON    COMMON.  233 

tial,  and  to  possess  this  one  must  be  imbued  with  principle  — 
one  must  have  a  regular  system  to  observe.  A  rule  or  two 
is  of  value  here.  Have  a  place  for  everything ;  and  when 
done  using  that  article,  put  it  immediately  in  that  place.  As 
soon  as  an  article  is  out  of  order,  or  needs  repairing,  stop  all 
business  at  once,  and  mend  or  put  in  perfect  order  that  arti 
cle.  You  will,  by  a  careful  attention  to  these  rules,  soon  ob 
serve  a  striking  change  in  your  whole  appearance. 

"  Another  fault  of  yours,  my  Helen,  is  this :  You  are 
very  prone  to  overlook  some  difficulty  in  your  studies.  You 
are  possessed  of  a  quick,  impatient  disposition,  which  will  not 
allow  you  calmly  to  unwind  the  thread  of  your  difficulty ;  and 
so  you  quickly  draw  it  into  a  tangle,  and  then  throw  it  away 
as  entirely  useless.  Many  a  fine  idea  have  you  thus  lost  for 
ever,  besides  injuring  and  enervating  your  mind;  for  every 
time  you  omit  an  opportunity  to  solve  an  intricate  sum  or 
problem,  you  weaken  your  powers. 

"  I  am  a  strong  advocate  for  stern,  unremitting  study.  I 
would  never  leave  a  sum  unciphered,  or  a  puzzle  unravelled; 
but  would  turn  and  shift  it  in  every  possible  direction,  in 
order  to  find  out  its  whole  meaning.  In  order  for  you  to  do 
this,  you  will  have  to  struggle  against  that  impatient  temper 
of  yours.  You  must  endeavor  to  be  calm  and  patient,  and 
with  striving  and  perseverance  you  will  soon  find  the  greatest 
difficulties  vanish. 

"Another  fault  of  yours  is  this:  You  are  not  always 
very  choice  in  regard  to  the  language  you  use.  You  are 
sometimes  rather  commonplace  in  your  expressions.  A  lady, 
to  be  and  appear  a  lady,  must  always  make  use  of  the  best 
words  she  can  find ;  and  in  order  to  do  this,  if  she  is  not  fully 
20* 


234  BOSTON    COMMON. 

acquainted  with  her  own  language,  she  had  best  make  her 
dictionary  her  first  study.  I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  in  con 
versing  we  should  make  use  of  high-flown  terms,  or  exuberant 
expressions,  like  your  friend  Letitia,  of  whom  you  have  told 
me ;  but  wherever  we  are,  or  with  whoever  we  may  chance  to 
be,  use  the  language  best  adapted  to  their  capacity.  A  few 
rules  of  conversation  are  these :  never  say  more  than  is 
necessary,  use  the  words  best  adapted  to  your  subject,  and  if 
trying  to  convince  by  an  argument,  make  use  of  the  plainest 
terms,  to  render  your  subject  clear  and  forcible,  and  then  leave 
it  for  your  antagonist  to  ponder  upon.  In  order  to  do  this 
correctly,  you  must  read  and  study  a  great  deal ;  ascertain 
your  author's  opinion,  and  form  one  of  your  own,  based  upon 
good  common  sense,  and  you  will  scarcely  fail  of  being  right, 
or  of  convincing  your  auditor. 

"Another  fault  of  yours,  my  Helen,  and  perhaps  the  great 
est,  is  your  quick,  passionate  temper.  I  am  sorry  to  be 
obliged  to  speak  of  this ;  but  it  has  caused  me  far  more  pain 
than  you  can  imagine.  For  a  young  lady  to  fly  into  a  rage, 
if  everything  does  not  suit  her  wishes  immediately,  is  totally 
inexcusable ;  and  in  you,  Helen,  —  who  should,  in  strict  obe 
dience  to  the  holy  faith  which  you  profess,  be  an  advocate  of 
better  things,  —  wicked.  Correct  this,  or  it  will  be  a  source 
of  the  greatest  unhappiness  to  you  through  life,  and  may  lead 
you  into  serious  evils. 

"  You  have  tried,  Helen,  to  overcome  your  faults,  and  I 
am  pleased  to  find  that  you  have  made  vast  improvement. 
Your  control  over  yourself  has  already  raised  you  high  in  my 
estimation,  and  shows  that  you  possess  a  strong  mind,  and  a 
desire  to  do  right,  which  I  very  much  rejoice  in.  Try  and 


BOSTON     COMMON.  235 

follow  the  maxims  I  have  laid  down  for  you,  and  I  shall 
yet  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  an  elegant  and  finished 
woman." 

How  many  such  lectures  did  I  listen  to  from  Ernest !  and 
with  such  monitors  as  he  and  Harry  ever  at  my  side,  it  would 
have  been  strange  indeed  if  I  had  not  improved,  and  that 
very  sensibly  too.  . 

Ernest  was  kind  while  conversing  with  me  ;  but  if  I  failed 
to  do  anything  he  wished,  he  did  not  spare  me  at  all,  but 
contrived  to  rob  me  of  some  pleasure  I  had  been  anticipating. 
He  was  an  excellent  mathematical  scholar,  and  as  this  branch 
was  not  taught  in  my  school,  I  was,  in  the  beginning  of  June, 
placed  under  his  tuition.  I  did  not  much  fancy  him  for  a 
teacher,  for  I  knew  that  I  should  experience  but  little  mercy 
from  Mm ;  but  there  was  no  gainsaying  my  guardian's  will. 
He  was  inexorable,  and  I  accordingly  commenced  my  new 
duties  with  as  good  a  grace  as  possible.  Two  mornings  a 
week  were  devoted  to  this  business.  A  few  days  before  the 
first  lesson,  Ernest  had  promised  me  a  visit  to  the  Boston 
Museum.  I  had  been  in  once,  and  had  a  glimpse  of  the  curi 
osities,  and  the  delight  I  there  experienced  was  unbounded. 
A  longing  to  see  a  play  or  tragedy  had  ever  since  taken 
strong  possession  of  my  mind ;  and  I  was  accordingly  prom 
ised  this  great  treat  in  a  week  or  two,  provided  I  did  nothing 
ia  the  meanwhile  to  displease  Ernest. 

How  very  hard  I  strove  to  earn  this  long-wished-for  pleas 
ure,  and  how  anxious  was  I  that  every  word  and  action 
should  be  such  as  even  my  stern  judge  would  not  object  to ! 
Just  then  my  lessons  in  algebra  commenced.  I  had  always 
hated  arithmetic ;  anything  beyond  the  four  fundamental 


236  BOSTON     COMMON. 

rules  was  to  me  a  nuisance.  Consequently,  I  had  a  mortal 
aversion  to  algebra,  and  resolved  to  convince  Ernest  that  my 
brain  was  not  large  enough  to  contain  anything  concerning  a 
"plus,"  "x,"or  "minus."  I  could  not,  however,  with  all 
my  arguments,  make  him  agree  with  me.  He  was  incorrigi 
ble,  and  to  work  I  set. 

Ernest  kindly  assisted  me;  but,  of  course,  the  heaviest 
part  of  the  work  devolved  upon  me.  I  was  obliged  to  set  my 
wits  at  work,  and  try,  by  real  labor,  to  find  out  what  all  the 
hard,  puzzling  things  in  my  algebra  meant.  I  hated  those 
lessons,  and  at  times  almost  hated  my  teacher  too,  for  impos 
ing  such  tasks  upon  me. 

One  day  my  head  ached,  and  I  felt  as  though  I  could  not 
study.  I  went  up  to  Ernest  with  my  book  and  slate,  and 
said,  in  a  deprecating  tone, 

"  I  do  not  want  to  study  to-day,  Ernest.  I  am  weary  of 
algebra,  and  wish  you  would  do  this  sum  for  me." 

"  I  have  showed  you  about  it,  Helen,"  he  replied,  "  and 
now  you  must  do  the  rest." 

I  seated  myself  without  another  word,  and  commenced. 
For  nearly  an  hour  did  I  patiently  work,  and  investigate  the 
matter,  but  to  no  purpose  whatever.  It  was  a  stubborn  thing, 
and  resisted  all  my  efforts. 

At  length,  as  I  sat  considering,  an  idea  entered  my  brain, 
and  I  earnestly  set  about  putting  it  in  action.  "I  have 
found  the  way,  at  last,"  thought  I ;  and  so  I  worked  a  while 
longer.  In  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour  I  had  the  answer,  as 
I  thought,  and  I  triumphantly  glanced  at  the  book,  to  see  how 
it  stood  the  test.  It  was  all  wrong  !  and,  in  the  height  of  my 
disappointment,  I  threw  both  book  and  slate,  with  much  vio- 


BOSTON     COMMON.  237 

lence,  to  the  other  side  of  the  room.  Ernest  looked  up  from 
his  reading. 

"  What  is  the  matter  now,  Helen? "  he  asked. 

"  I  cannot  do  that  sum,"  I  replied,  "  and  I  will  not !  It  is 
too  difficult." 

"  Go  and  pick  up  your  book  and  slate,"  said  Ernest,  calmly, 
"  and  try  again." 

"  I  shall  do  no  such  thing !  "  I  answered.  "  I  hate  alge 
bra,  and  do  not  want  to  study  it  any  more.  You  have  no 
right  to  impose  such  tasks  upon  me,  and  I  will  submit  to  it  no 
longer." 

Ernest  looked  at  me  in  perfect  amazement.  "  Go  and  pick 
up  that  book  !  "  said  he,  firmly.  "  You  must  and  shall  finish 
that  sum ! " 

I  did  not  relish  his  "  must "  and  "  shall "  very  well  just 
then;  and  so,  without  looking  .towards  him,  I  arose  and 
hastily  walked  out  of  the  room.  Throwing  on  my  bonnet  and 
shawl,  I  left  the  hotel,  and  bent  my  steps  towards  the  Com 
mon.  As  I  wandered  slowly  through  its  beautiful  paths,  my 
mind  reverted  to  Roland. 

"  How  different,"  thought  I,  "  was  he  to  this  cold,  hard 
task-master,  with  his  everlasting  '  pluses '  and  '  minuses ' ! 
Roland  would  never  have  thought  of  imposing  such  trials  upon 
me.  0,  how  hard  is  my  fate,  in  being  forever  separated  from 
him  I  loved  so  fondly,  and  compelled  to  be  united  to  a  man 
whom  I  so  cordially  dislike !  " 

A  thought  of  Ernest's  anger  at  my  conduct  at  length 
crossed  my  mind,  but  I  did  not  much  care. 

"  I  am  old  enough,"  said  I,  to  myself,  "  to  do  a  little  as  I 
please  ;  and  it  is  high  time  I  commenced.  He  has  no  right 


238  BOSTON     COMMON. 

to  make  such  a  child  of  me,  and  I  will  submit  to  it  no 
longer!"  -.*•, 

Filled  with  these  thoughts,  I  left  the  'Common  and  re 
turned  to  the  house.  I  entered  the  parlor  with  a  defiant  air, 
which  was,  however,  unnecessary.  Ernest  was  still  there, 
and  reading.  He  looked  up  and  smiled  as  I  entered ;  and  a 
few  moments  afterwards  asked  if  I  had  had  a  pleasant  walk. 

"  0,  beautiful !  "  I  answered ;  "  I  enjoyed  it  so  much !  " 

He  said  nothing  more,  but  resumed  his  reading ;  while  I 
congratulated  myself  upon  the  success  which  had  attended 
the  first  efforts  I  had  made  towards  regaining  my  freedom. 

"  How  very  foolish  I  have  been,"  thought  I,  "  to  submit  so 
long  to  that  tyrant's  whims!  I  will  do  so  no  more,  but  will 
let  him  know  that  I  am  free-born  as  well  as  himself." 

The  next  evening  was  the  one  which  had  been  set  apart  for 
my  long-anticipated  visit  to  the  Museum.  I  could  scarcely 
attend  to  my  practice  or  studies  all  day,  for  thinking  of  it. 
After  tea  I  dressed  myself  as  neatly  as  possible,  and  descend 
ed  to  aunt  Glenmore's  room,  determined  to  be  pleasant  and 
submissive,  for  this  night,  at  least.  I  seated  myself  at  the 
window,  and  waited  a  long  time  on  the  qui  vive  of  expecta 
tion  for  Ernest ;  but  he  came  not.  At  length  I  looked  at 
aunt  Glenmore,  and  said,  tearfully, 

"  Why  does  not  Ernest  come,  aunt  ?  It  will  soon  be  too 
late  to  go.  I  never  knew  him  to  be  tardy  before." 

"I  cannot  tell  the  reason,  my  dear  child,"  replied  my  aunt, 
"  but  patience  ;  something  may  have  detained  him.  He  will 
soon  be  here,  no  doubt." 

At  precisely  half-past  seven  a  knock  was  heard  at  my 
aunt's  door.  I  ran  hastily  to  open  it,  and  was  met  by  a  ser- 


BOSTON     COMMON.  ,  239 

vant,  who  handed  me  a  package,  enveloped  in  brown  paper. 
I  grasped  it  with  a  foreboding  of  evil ;  and,  hastily  untying 
the  string  that  confined  it,  my  despised  algebra  and  slate 
fell  to  the  floor.  I  looked  at  them  in  perfect  dismay,  and, 
picking  up  a  little  note  that  had  escaped  from  the  book,  read, 
tremblingly,  as  follows : 

"  As  Miss  Clifton  refused  yesterday  to  pick  up  her  book 
and  slate  from  the  floor,  when  directed,  will  she  excuse  her 
unworthy  cousin  performing  the  office  for  her,  and  subscribing 
himself  E.  RICHMOND." 

A  mist  came  before  my  eyes,  and  they  instantly  filled  with 
tears ;  for ,  the  cause  of  Ernest's  absence  was  now  fully 
explained.  I  had  displeased  him,  and  failed  to  fulfil' my 
contract,  and  he  had  doomed  me  to  one  of  the  severest'disap- 
pointments  I  ever  met  with ;  and  even  to  this  late  day  I  can 
scarcely  refer  to,  or  even  think  of  that  evening's  unhappiness, 
without  a  pang. 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 

"  Fear  no  more  the  heat  o'  the  sun, 
Nor  the  furious  winter's  rages  ; 
Thou  thy  worldly  task  hast  done, 
Home  art  gone,  and  ta'en  thy  wages." 

SHAKSPEARE. 

JUNE,  with  its  beautiful  skies,  its  budding  roses,  and  soft 
breezes,  sped  gently  away,  and  was  succeeded  by  the  scorch 
ing  months  of  July  and  August.  These  two  months  were 
spent  by  us  in  the  country.  Our  summer  lodgings  were 
enlivened  by  the  presence  of  my  father,  mother,  and  little 
sister.  I  was  quite  happy  during  this  season ;  and  nothing 
was  wanting  to  make  our  retreat  a  paradise,  save  the  fast- 
waning  health  of  dear  Harry  Glenmore.  He  grew  still 
paler  and  thinner  each  day,  and  seemed  to  be  slowly  but 
surely  fading  away.  I  received  several  letters  from  Katie 
Merton  during  the  summer,  breathing  the  fondest  friendship 
for  me,  and  congratulating  me  upon  my  hopes  of  future  hap 
piness. 

How  eagerly  did  I  open  my  letters  from  the  east,  and  how 
hastily  peer  through  the  closely-written  columns,  for  some 
intelligence  of  Roland  or  Mary  !  I  never  found  even  the 
names,  however,  and  was  often  surprised  at  myself  for  the 


BOSTON     COMJTON.  241 

eagerness  with  which  I  still  dwelt  upon  the  memory  of 
Roland. 

Towards  the  middle  of  September  we  returned  to  the  city, 
and  once  more  took  up  our  residence  in  the  large  and  fashion 
able  hotel,  near  the  Common. 

I  was  quite  glad  at  again  beholding  Ernest,  and,  for  the 
first  week  or  two,  enjoyed  his  society  very  much.  There  was 
a  newness,  a  sparkling,  an  originality,  about  Ernest,  that 
never  failed  to  please  me.  He  could  enchain,  for  hours,  all 
hearts  by  his  conversation.  I  was,  therefore,  even  happy  to 
see  Ernest  again ;  and  he,  on  his  part,  seemed  to  have  lost 
for  a  while,  all  his  coldness,  and  never  appeared  half  so  affec 
tionate  before.  That  evening,  as  we  walked  together  upon 
the  Common,  he  said,  with  much  feeling : 

"  How  very  happy  am  I,  cousin  Nellie,  to  have  you  again 
with  me  !  How  much  I  have  suffered,  these  two  long  months, 
pent  up  in  this  close  city,  and  without  your  dear  face  to 
cheer  me,  I  cannot  describe.  I  have  visited  this  beautiful 
spot  many,  many  times,  and  wandered  up  and  down  its  walks, 
in  utter  loneliness  of  spirit.  I  have  stood  by  the  smooth  sur 
face  of  the  little  pond,  and,  gazing  far  down  its  depths,  have 
half  imagined  I  saw  your  own  sweet  face  reflected  in  its 
sparkling  waters ;  and  then  have  started  from  my  reveries  as 
if  awakened  by  the  music  of  your  dear  voice.  I  shudder, 
Helen,  when  I  think  what  sort  of  a  life  I  should  lead 
without  you  by  my  side ;  —  it  would  be  lonely  and  dreary 
enough." 

Poor  Ernest!  I  glanced  at  him.  He  looked  pale  and 
sad.  For  the  first  time  in  my  life,  I  seemed  to  appreciate  his 
strong,  deep  affection  for  me ;  and  I  pitied  him,  and  felt  my 
21 


242  BOSTON    COMMON. 

heart  glow  with  gratitude  towards  him,  for  such  unchanging 
love. 

The  next  morning,  I  coaxed  Harry  out  with  me  for  a  walk. 
He  complied ;  and  we  sauntered  slowly  up  and  down  the 
paths  of  our  favorite  nook. 

"  How  beautiful  and  fair  are  all  things  here  !  "  said  Harry. 
"  Do  you  know,  Helen,  that  I  have  fancied  this  sweet  spot 
resembled  heaven?  These  walks,  so  firm  and  smooth,  are 

« 

the  paths  of  virtue,  from  which  no  deviations  are  passable ; 
these  trees,  so  green  and  overarching,  and  this  water,  so  pure 
and  lucid,  remind  me  of  the  shady  trees  and  cool  rills  of 
paradise,  which  we  all  picture  so  fondly  to  ourselves.  Helen, 
I  have  a  fancy  that  I  should  love  to  die,  some  pleasant  even 
ing,  in  this  quiet  spot,  apart  from  the  busy  hum  of  the  stir 
ring  city.  I  would  repose  my  weary  form  under  one  of 
these  lofty  trees  ;  I  would  fix  my  eyes  upon  yon  glorious  orb 
of  day,  as  it  gently  declined  in  the  brilliant  west,  and,  with  a 
calm  stealing  over  the  face  of  nature,  would  softly  breathe 
my  last.  I  wish  I  might  be  permitted  to  die  thus." 

"  0,  Harry !  "  said  I,  mournfully,  "  I  hope  you  may  yet 
recover.  You  must  not  talk  of  dying ;  we  cannot  spare  you. 
I  am  lost  without  you,  Harry,  dear  ;  I  am  so  sinful,  so  prone 
to  wander,  when  away  from  your  side !  " 

"  The  will  of  God  is  mine,"  he  softly  replied.  "  I  am 
ready  to  live  or  die,  just  as  it  pleases  him  ;  it  matters  not  to 
me.  I  am  sorry  to  leave,  you,  dear  Nellie,  and  my  other 
friends,  who  are  all  so  kind  towards  me ;  but  only  a  few  years 
will  pass,  when  I  shall  meet  them  in  yonder  heaven,  I  trust, 
With  what  happiness  unspeakable  shall  I  then  greet  them ! 
How  little  and  insignificant  will  our  troubles  here  seem  then, 


BOSTON    COMMON.  243 

in  comparison  with  the  joys  and  raptures  of  heaven !  0, 
Helen,  when  I  think  of  that  happy  time  and  place,  I  am  lost 
in  wonder  and  happiness,  and  almost  long  to  burst  my  bonds 
and  soar  away  !  " 

Harry's  sublime  words  always  sunk  deep  into  my  heart, 
and  left  a  serious  impression  there.  He  was  my  spiritual 
guide  and  adviser.  I  always  felt  that  it  was  good  to  be  near 
him ;  and  many  a  fine  long  walk  did  I  enjoy  with  him,  the 
remainder  of  this  month,  and  many  a  beautiful  sentiment,  or 
holy  admonition,  did  I  then  cherish  and  note  down  to  remem 
ber  him  by.  Dear  Harry !  That  mouth,  and  those  eyes, 
once  so  speaking,  have  been  mouldering  to  clay  for  many 
long  years;  but  thy  beautiful  spirit  is  with  me  still,  admon 
ishing  me  solemnly  to  eschew  evil,  and  gently  urging  me  to 
follow  thy  holy  example. 

September,  with  its  refreshing  breezes,  soft  skies,  and 
purple  sunsets,  was  gently  fading  into  October.  How  vividly 
do  I  remember  the  bright  glory  of  this  golden  month ! 
It  was  the  celebrated  Indian  summer  of  18 — ,  when  nature 
seemed  enveloped  with  a  mellow  hue,  when  the  fields  were 
yellow  with  an  uncommonly  fine  harvest,  and  summer  seemed 
lulling  itself  asleep  in  the  arms  of  luxury. 

One  bright  evening,  when  the  sky  had  worn  a  rich  dress 
of  golden  blue  all  day,  when  not  a  leaf  was,  stirred  by  the 
breeze,  and  not  a  zephyr  troubled  the  waters,  Harry,  who 
had  been  lying  in  a  dreamy  state  for  hours,  suddenly  revived. 

"  Helen,"  said  he  to  me,  as  I  sat  holding  his  hand,  "  I  feel 
much  better,  and  have  an  instinctive  longing,  I  know  not  why, 
to  visit  yon  sweet  spot  with  you  this  evening." 


244  BOSTON    COMMON. 

"  I  fear  the  night  air  will  not  be  of  much  benefit  to  you, 
dear  Hal,"  I  answered. 

"  It  cannot  harm  me,  this  sweet  breath  of  evening,"  he 
replied.  "  I  must  go,  if  you  please." 

Seeing  that  he  really  desired  it,  and  only  too  willing  to 
gratify  his  slightest  wish,  I  sought  Ernest,  and  together  we 
sauntered  forth. 

Harry  walked  with  slow  and  feeble  steps  between  us,  and 
spoke  but  little.  He  bent  his  way  towards  the  old  cemetery 
on  the  Common;  and,  after  reaching  a  little,  verdant  spot 
near  the  fence,  he  lay  down  beneath  a  tree,  looking  so  pale 
and  fatigued,  that  we  felt  quite  alarmed  for  him.  Seeing  our 
concern,  he  pleasantly  assured  us  that  he  was  perfectly  free 
from  pain,  and  that  the  air  could  not  possibly  harm  him,  it 
was  so  soft  and  mild. 

"  I  wish,"  continued  he,  "  to  talk  with  you  both  before  my 
departure ;  and  as  I  feel  so  anxious  for  your  united  happi 
ness,  you  will  perhaps  remember  what  I  say  to  you.  Ernest, 
my  beloved  cousin,  you  are  a  Christian,  and  as  such  strive 
to  walk  daily  in  the  love  and  fear  of  your  God.  You  have 
begged  and  found  pardon  for  a  thousand  wanderings  at  the 
foot  of  the  Cross,  and  will  ever,  I  trust,  be  a  bright,  shining 
light  in  the  world  to  which  you  have  devoted  yourself  a  will 
ing  sacrifice.  ,1  have  no  fear  for  you,  my  Ernest ;  for  your 
strong  will,  united  with  a  stern  sense  of  duty,  and  your 
almost  perfect  self-government,  will  enable  you  to  tread  life's 
thorny  paths  with  scarcely  a  struggle  ;  but,  0  Ernest !  be 
careful  of  Helen  !  Be  kind  to  her,  and  bear  with  her  faults ! 
Remember  she  has  struggled  with  temptation  and  sorrow, 
and  if  she  is  weak,  encourage  her,  and  strive  to  increase 


BOSTON    COMMON.  245 

her  strength  and  faith  by  your  own  gentle  admonitions  and 
example. 

"  I  have  not  many  fears  for  you,  Helen,"  he  continued. 
"  Strive  to  subdue  that  quick,  impatient  temper  of  yours ; 
watch  and  pray  against  it.  You  are  both  strong  and  active 
spirits.  Spend  your  time  and  talents,  not  for  your  own 
emolument,  but  for  the  glory  of  God.  He  has  bestowed  these 
gifts  upon  you  to  honor  him  thereby  ;  and  see  that  you  do  so. 
I  have  much  more  'to  say,  but  am  too  weak  at  present.  I 
can  only  add,  watch  and  pray,  struggle  for  a  blessing,  and  it 
will  surely  be  yours." 

He  leaned  back  upon  the  grass,  and  a  ghastly  paleness  sud 
denly  spread  itself  over  his  features. 

I  sprang  quickly  forward ;  but  Ernest  had  already  antic 
ipated  me,  and  was  holding  the  head  of  Harry  in  his  arms. 

"  0,  Harry  !  "  I  exclaimed,  "  what  shall  we  do?  You  are 
very  ill." 

He  beamed  a  sweet  smile  upon  us.  "  Dear  cousins," 
said  he,  "I  have  just  received  a  despatch  from  the  messen 
ger  of  death.  It  has  come  rather  sooner  than  I  anticipated, 
but  none  too  soon  for  me.  I  am  resigned.  I  can  give  up 
this  frail  body  into  the  arms  of  my  heavenly  Father.  He 
will  bear  me  safely  through  the  swelling  waters." 

"  0,  Harry !  can  we  not  return  to  the  hotel  ?  "  I  trem 
blingly  asked. 

"  No,  Helen,  let  me  remain  here ;  it  would  disturb  my 
last  moments  to  remove  me,"  he  replied. 

I  knelt  over  him  and  wept.  He  took  a  hand  of  each 
between  his  own,  which  had  grown  so  cold  that  we  were 
startled. 

21* 


246  BOSTON     COMMON. 

"  Please  remain  perfectly  quiet,  and  make  no  noise,"  he 
said.  "  My  wish  is  granted  me ;  I  shall  die  in  my  favorite 
spot,  with  the  calm  blue  sky  over-arching  my  head,  and  the 
trees  waving  gracefully  over  me.  What  a  glorious  evening !  " 
he  continued ;  "  the  air  is  like  powdered  gold,  and  there  is  a 
soft  mist  creeping  over  the  horizon,  which  is  delicious.  I  hear 
a  gentle  rustling  in  the  tree-tops,  —  it  is  the  angels  coming 
to  bear  me  home  to  heaven.  Helen,  draw  near  to  me,"  he 
continued,  as  his  voice  softened  to  a  whisper ;  "  remember,  I 
am  waiting  for  you  in  heaven  ;  do  not  disappoint  me,  —  I 
must  see  you  there.  Ernest,  dear  Ernest,  a  long  farewell ! 
My  beloved  parents  —  comfort  them  for  my  sake.  I  am 
hastening  —  the  angels  are  drawing  near.  I  already  feel  the 
motion  of  their  wings ;  and  my  own  are  pluming,  and  nearly 
ready  for  flight.  Hpw  buoyant  and  elastic  is  my  spirit !  — 
what  rapture  thrills  through  my  soul !  The  gates  of  heaven 
are  opening  for  me ;  Jesus  is  coming  forth  to  meet  me. 
I  —  bless  —  him  —  "  The  next  breath,  and  he  was  indeed 
gone.  The  angels  had  taken  his  beatified  spirit,  and, 
bearing  it  far  away  with  them,  had  left  us  with  only  the 
beautiful  casket,  that  once  contained  the  priceless  gem. 
I  looked  mournfully  at  Ernest  as  he  closed  the  eyes,  and 
folded  the  wasted  hands,  that  had  but  a  moment  before 
grasped  our  own  so  fondly,  upon  the  breast  He  was  very 
pale,  but  firm. 

"This  is,  indeed,  death,"  said  he;  "but  how  calmly  he  went 
to  sleep  !  Softly  as  an  infant  he  drew  his  last  breath.  Go, 
Helen,  and  without  noise,  but  quietly,  as  our  dear  Harry 
died,  bring  assistance.  Be  as  speedy  as  possible." 

I  was  weeping  violently,  but  arose  at  his  summons,  and, 


BOSTON     COMMON.  247 

making  a  vain  effort  at  checking  my  grief,  bent  my  steps  to 
the  hotel,  and  informed  my  uncle  and  aunt  that  their  son 
had  suddenly  expired ;  then,  without  venturing  to  trust  my 
self  to  witness  their  sorrow,  sought  my  own  chamber,  where 
I  wept  and  mourned  myself  to  sleep. 

Harry's  death  upon  the  Common  caused  the  greatest  ex 
citement  and  sympathy ;  but  we  kept  all  as  quiet  as  possi 
ble,  and  one  fine,  lovely  twilight  hour,  a  few  evenings  after 
wards,  we  slowly  and  mournfully  bore  him  to  rest,  beneath 
one  of  the  old  trees,  in  the  spot  he  loved  so  well  upon  earth. 
He  sleeps  in  a  green  mound  in  that  old  cemetery,  where 
the  trees  rustle  softly  over  his  grave  all  day,  and  the 
distant  hum  of  the  busy  city  disturbs  him  not.  He  was  a 
bright  and  active  spirit  while  upon  earth  ;  and,  young  as  he 
was,  and  ever  suffering,  he  never  omitted  an  opportunity  of 
doing  his  Master's  will.  I  can  never  forget  him,  or  the 
example  he  left  behind.  I  often  mourn  that  he  died  so 
young ;  for  had  he  lived  I  might  have  been  spared  innumer 
able  troubles. 

A  gloom  rested  upon  our  once  cheerful  hearth.  We  all 
silently  wept  and  mourned  for  the  being  who  had  left  us.  I 
resumed  my  studies ;  but  it  was  with  sorrow  that  I  opened 
the  books  marked  and  commented  upon  by  Harry.  Ernest 
had  grown  colder  and  graver  since  his  death.  It  had  evi 
dently  made  a  deep  impression  upon  his  mind,  which  months 
did  not  eradicate.  He  was  silent  and  abstracted  much  of  the 
time  during  that  long  winter ;  but  when  spring  came  once 
more,  with  her  lovely  skies  and  opening  blossoms,  he  sud 
denly  lost  his  moodincss,  and,  resuming  once  more  his  ani 
mated  and  former  self,  became  again  the  life  and  light  of  our 
cherished  circle. 


CHAPTER    XXV. 

"  I  love  to  be  free, 

And  to  feel  the  whole  world 
Is  open  to  me, 

When  iny  wings  are  unfurled." 

HANNAH  F.  GOTTLD. 

ONE  day,  Ernest  entered  my  room  in  great  haste.  "  Hel 
en,"  said  he,  "  it  is  time  to  talk  of  our  marriage.  We 
have  been  together  now  nearly  two  years  ;  your  education 
has  wonderfully  improved,  and  my  house  is  nearly  ready. 
Say,  dearest,  when  shall  it  be  ?  " 

I  sunk  back  in  my  chair ;  a  cold  feeling  crept  around  my 
heart,  and  I  attempted  to  speak,  but  the  words  died  upon  my 
tongue.  The  idea  of  marrying  Ernest,  soon,  had  never  before 
occurred  to  me.  As  long  as  it  was  a  distant,  talked-of  pro 
ject,  I  could  bear  to  look  upon  it  without  shuddering ;  but 
now  that  he  had  so  abruptly  presented  the  matter  to  me,  my 
heart  refused  to  reply,  or  sanction  the  request. 

"  Well,  Helen,"  he  continued,  impatiently,  "  I  await  your 
reply.  Why  do  you  hesitate  ?  " 

"  Dear  Ernest,"  I  at  length  found  strength  to  say,  "  I  am 
so  young,  and  so  contented,"  I  added,  my  voice  sinking  to  a 


BOSTON     COMMON.  249 

whisper,  "  please  let  me  remain  as  I  am.  I  do  not  wish  to 
marry." 

Ernest's  large  gray  eyes  flashed  a  cold  light  upon  me,  as 
he  drew  near  and  took  my  trembling  hand  in  his.  "  Helen," 
said  he,  "  I  am  not  to  be  trifled  with.  I  fondly  and  ardently 
love  you,  and  am  the  only  fit  guide  for  your  youth  and  inexpe 
rience.  Of  one  thing  be  assured.  Our  marriage  must  and 
shall  take  place ;  and,  if  you  are  not  disposed  to  name  the 
time,  I  shall.  So  be  prepared,  for  it  is  inevitable." 

"  Recollect,  Ernest,"  I  answered,  "  that  this  marriage  is 
not  of  my  seeking.  I  was  drawn  into  it  unwillingly,  and  you 
have  no  right  to  compel  me  to  —  to  —  " 

I  stopped,  and  looked  anxiously  towards  my  companion. 
He  had  arisen,  and  his  eyes  were  fixed  intensely  upon  my 
face.  Their  cold,  glittering  light  froze  my  very  soul. 

"  You  are  either  a  fool,  Helen,"  he  said,  contemptuously, 
"  or  much  more  of  a  child  than  I  supposed.  My  whole  aim 
and  object,  in  this  match,  has  been  to  make  you  happy,  by 
making  you  good.  Please  so  to  consider  it.  Do  not  talk  of 
your  unwillingness ;  mine  you  must  be,  and  very  soon  too. 
I  will  compel  you,  in  spite  of  yourself,  to  strictly  fulfil  your 
duty." 

He  dropped  my  hand,  and  left  me,  while  I  had  recourse  to 
my  usual  weakness,  a  shower  of  tears.  While  I  sat  weeping, 
and  bemoaning  my  sad  fate,  I  heard  a  voice,  and  steps  rap 
idly  ascending  the  stairs.  The  words,  "  beautiful,"  "  glo 
rious,"  "  divine,"  "  ecstatic  place,"  made  me  spring  quickly 
to  my  feet,  and  the  next  moment  I  had  clasped  Letitia  Mil- 
ford  in  my  arms.  She  was  decked  out  so  showily  that  I 


250  BOSTON     COMMON. 

scarcely  knew  her ;   but  she  was  overjoyed  to  see  me  once 
more,  looking  so  "  superlatively  lovely,"  as  she  said. 

We  seated  ourselves  with  twined  arms  upon  the  sofa,  and 
looked  into  each  other's  eyes. 

"  Now  tell  me,  dearest  Nell,"  said  she,  "  all  about  your 
lovers  here  in  Boston.  You  must  have  a  score  by  this  time, 
and  I  am  dying  to  hear  all  about  them." 

"  I  have  no  lovers,  Letise,  and  shall  not  be  able  to  gratify 
your  curiosity  in  this  particular,"  I  replied. 

"  0,  what  a  pity  ! "  she  exclaimed  ;  "  but  tell  me  all  about 
your  stately  cousin ;  him  of  the  princely  form  and  dark-gray 
e'en.  What  is  he  like  ?  I  am  dying  to  behold  him.  I  have 
compared  him  to  Paul  Clifford,  Ernest  Maltravers,  Sir  Wil 
liam  Wallace,  and  a  dozen  others,  but  cannot  yet  imagine 
how  he  looks.  Does  he  resemble  any  of  these  heroes  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  tell,"  I  replied,  "  as  I  never  beheld  either  of 
them,  but  should  think  him  a  little  of  the  Eugene  Aram  order 
just  now.  But  never  mind  me  or  my  lovers;  tell  me  of 
yourself,  Letise.  How  are  all  the  dear  ones  at  the  Glen  ? 
Why  and  when  did  you  leave,  and  where  are  you  stopping  at 
present  ?  " 

"  0,"  she  replied,  "  the  old  maiden  aunt  for  whom  I  was 
named  has  lately  adopted  me,  and  taken  me  under  her  espe 
cial  protection.  She  is  going  to  cross  the  Alleghanies  this . 
summer,  and  I  am  to  be  her  companion.  Isn't  that  pleasant? 
It  would  be  delightful,  but  for  her  persisting  in  calling  me 
Letty  before  everybody,  as  if  she  doted  upon  its  very  sound ! 
How  I  hate  that  old-fashioned  name  !  But  I  must  bear  this, 
and  a  thousand  other  things,  that  daily  and  hourly  shock  my 


BOSTON     COMMON.  251l 

delicate  nerves,  I  suppose ;  for  she  is  very  rich,  and  I  am  to 
be  her  sole  heiress." 

"  But  you  will  remain  here  for  a  while,  will  you  not  ?  "  I 
asked. 

"  0,  yes,"  she  answered.  "  We  have  engaged  rooms  in 
this  hotel  for  a  couple  of  months,  for  aunt  Peabody  is  going 
to  bring  me  out,  as  she  calls  it.  Only  think,  ma  chere,  I 
have  finished  my  education,  and  now  I  shall  have  nothing  to 
do  but  dress  and  read  novels  all  day,  and  dance  all  night. 
0,  I  shall  be  so  happy !  "  she  continued  ;  "  such  fine  dresses 
and  jewelry  —  such  lots  of  beaux  !  I  shall  surely  contrive  to 
fall  in  love  as  often  as  once  a  week !  " 

"  But  where  is  Clarence  Brooke  ?  "  I  archly  asked ;  &  he 
whom  you  were  going  to  die  for." 

"Pshaw!"  she  replied.  "He  was  a  simpleton  —  a  blub 
bering  school-boy ;  and  his  soul  too  little  to  appreciate  affec 
tion,  sentimentx  or  anything  of  that  sort.  I  could  not  long 
love  so  unimpressionable  an  animal." 

She  rattled  on  for  a  long  time  with  her  usual  volubility, 
and  then  proposed  introducing  me  to  her  aunt.  We  accord 
ingly  ascended  to  her  room,  and  Letitia  presented  me  to  a 
fashionably-dressed  middle-aged  lady,  who  received  me  with 
the  most  studied  politeness,  and  immediately  entered  into  a 
conversation  with  me,  in  which  Letitia  was,  of  course,  the 
principal  feature. 

"  I  have  brought  my  niece  Letty  to  Boston,"  she  said,  "  in 
order  to  fit  her  for  the  distinguished  station  she  will  occupy, 
as  my  heiress.  I  shall  bring  her  out  immediately,  —  intro 
duce  her  to  all  my  fashionable  friends,  and  with  her  dress  and 
beauty  she  cannot  fail  to  attract  a  deal  of  attention.  I  intend 


252  BOSTON     COMMON. 

she  shall  be  the  reigning  belle  here  next  winter.  I  wonder, 
Miss  Helen,"  she  continued,  "  that,  with  your  fortune  and  ac 
complishments,  your  guardian  should  persist  in  keeping  you 
pent  up  so  long  at  your  studies.  Why,  I  suppose  you  are 
eighteen  years  of  age  by  this  time,  and  I  dare  say  never  saw 
the  inside  of  a  theatre  ?  " 

I  blushed,  as  I  replied  that  my  guardian  did  not  approve 
of  theatres  for  young  people  when  they  were  at  their  studies ; 
and  that  I  had  not,  indeed,  been  to  a  theatre. 

"  0,  nonsense !  "  exclaimed  the  amiable  lady,  "  you  are  to 
be  pitied.  I  intend  that  Letty  shall  visit  one  just  when  she 
pleases ;  and  I  should  be  most  happy,  my  dear,  to  have  you 
accompany  us  as  often  as  you  like." 

"  I  am  obliged  to  you,  madam,"  I  answered,  "  and  only 
hope  that  I  may  be  allowed  to  accept  your  politeness." 

As  I  looked  at  Letitia  standing  before  the  mirror,  arrang 
ing  her  rich  brown  curls,  I  half  envied  her  the  freedom  she 
enjoyed.  She  was  not  pent  in  by  a  tyrannical  lover,  who 
was  constantly  making  her  life  a  burden,  but  was  blithe  and 
free  as  a  bird  on  the  wing.  She  could  go  where  she  pleased, 
do  what  she  pleased,  and  had  no  one  to  check  her  in  the 
least.  But  just  then  she  spoke ;  and  as  some  silly  expres 
sion  fell  from  her  lips,  and  was  responded  to  by  a  sillier  one 
from  her  aunt,  the  images  of  my  own  tried  and  dignified 
friends  rose  before  me,  and  I  was  content  to  remain  as  I  was. 

Letitia  and  her  aunt  were  soon  installed  in  their  sumptu 
ous  apartments,  and  deeply  engaged  in  arranging  their  trav 
elling  costumes  for  the  summer.  I  spent  as  much  time  with 
them  as  I  could  possibly  allow  from  my  studies,  but  was  sur 
prised  to  find  how  insipid  and  tiresome  my  beloved  Letise  had 


BOSTON     COMMON.  253 

grown,  since  we  were  at  the  Glen.     Was  the  change  in  her, 
or  in  my  own  humble  self? 

One  evening,  soon  after  their  arrival,  Miss  Peabody  entered 
my  aunt's  room,  dressed  in  the  height  of  fashion,  and  request 
ed  permission  to  carry  Miss  Helen  to  the  theatre. 

As  my  aunt  noted  my  wishful  countenance,  she  was  some 
what  annoyed,  and  glanced  at  Ernest,  who  was  reading.  He 
raised  his  eyes  from  the  page,  and,  bending  them  full  upon  the 
lady,  said, 

"  Madam,  if  we  wished  Helen  to  attend  theatres,  I  am 
always  at  her  service ;  but  we  do  not  wish  her  to  go,  and  she 
therefore  remains  at  home." 

Miss  Peabody  tossed  her  head,  and,  without  deigning  to 
notice  Ernest,  repeated  her  question  to  my  aunt. 

"  Helen,"  said  my  aunt,  "  is  betrothed  to  yonder  gentle-1 
man;   and  -whenever  she  goes  out  it  is  with  him,  madam. 
She  does  not  visit  theatres." 

Miss  Peabody,  muttering  something  about  "  close  confine 
ment,"  and  "  Methodist  parsons,"  flounced  indignantly  out  of 
the  room,  and  my  aunt  quietly  resumed  her  needle,  and  Er 
nest  his  reading.  I  sat  fidgeting  a  while  upon  my  chair, 
and  then  went  and  sat  down  near  my  cousin.  He  noticed 
my  approach  by  taking  my  hand,  but  still  continued  his 
reading. 

"  Ernest,"  said  I,  at  length,  "  do  let 's  go  to  the  theatre 
to-night.  I  want  to,  so  much !  " 

He  looked  at  me  a  few  moments,  and  then,  rising,  desired 
me  to  get  my  bonnet  for  a  walk.  We  bent  our  steps  directly 
to  our  beloved  retreat,  and  from  thence  to  Harry's  grave. 

"Look,  Helen,"  said  Ernest,  when  we  had  reached  the 
22 


254  BOSTON     COMMON. 

spot,  pointing  to  the  little  mound ;  "  do  you  remember  the 
calm,  sweet  evening,  when  that  blessed  spirit  departed  in  my 
arms?" 

"  I  do,"  I  replied,  with  much  feeling,  for  I  could  never 
refer  to  it  without  a  tear  ;  "  I  do  indeed." 

"  And  do  you  remember  his  last  words  to  you,  Helen  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Ernest,  I  can  never  forget  them." 

"  And  what  were  those  words  ?  " 

" '  Remember,  I  am  waiting  for  you  in  heaven.  Do  not 
disappoint  me,  for  I  must  see  you  there.' " 

"  Do  you  intend  to  do  as  he  wished  you?  " 

"  O,  I  hope  so,  Ernest.", 

"  And  is  this  the  way  you  intend  doing  it, —  by  going  to 
theatres  with  a  silly  woman  of  the  world,  who  would  corrupt 
'  your  youthful  mind,  and  make  it  like  her  own  ?  " 

"  0,  Ernest,  I  was  very  wrong ;  indeed  I  was'.  I  do  not 
wish  now  to  go,  and  will  say  no  more  about  it.  But  did  you 
not  promise  me  a  visit  to  the  Museum  once,  Ernest  ?  " 

"  I  did,"  he  replied,  "  but  am  much  changed  since  Harry's 
death.  I  have  been  thinking  much  of  him  lately,  Helen, —  of 
his  love  for  God,  of  his  holy  and  blameless  life, —  and  I  am 
resolved  to  live  so  that  I,  too,  may  die  as  he  did.  As  I  love 
you  very  dearly,  Helen,  I  wish  you  also  to  live  in  strict  ac 
cordance  with  our  dear  departed  Harry's  advice." 

I  had  never  heard  Ernest  speak  so  plainly  of  his  own  feel 
ings  before,  and  I  was  quite  interested.  We  walked  on,  in 
the  calm  evening,  and  talked  long  and  earnestly  of  the  beauti 
ful  spirit  who  had  left  us  with  the  precious  heritage  of  his 
example ;  and  when  I  returned  home  I  was  quite  ready  to 
give  up  balls  and  theatres  forever. 


BOSTON     COMMON.  255 

Time  went  on.  Letitia  and  her  aunt  dressed  and  went 
out  every  night;  and  when  I  saw  .them  they  were  always 
talking  of  the  joys  and  pleasures  of  a  gay  city  life.  I  never 
wished  to  accompany  them,  however.  By  the  blessing  of 
God,  I  had  conquered  that  desire  long  ago.  Two  or  three 
times  I  went  with  them,  accompanied  by  Ernest,  to  parties. 
They  pleased  me  somewhat,  but  I  was  quite  as  happy  when 
allowed  to  remain  at  home  with  the  family,  and  follow  my 
accustomed  pursuits. 


CHAPTER    XXVI. 

"There  are  swift  hours  in  life,  —  strong,  rushing  hours, 
That  do  the  work  of  tempests  in  their  might." 

MRS.  Jl E.MASS. 

ONE  evening,  early  in  May,  feeling  fatigued  with  my  stud 
ies,  I  arose,  and,  taking  my  bonnet,  sauntered  forth  alone 
for  a  walk.  I  bent  my  steps,  as  usual,  to  the  Common,  and 
seated  myself  under  the  great  elm-tree.  I  felt  unhappy  - —  I 
knew  not  why.  A  sudden  lassitude  had  come  over  me.  I 
was  becoming  weary  of  the  dull  routine  of  my  life,  and  a 
longing  for  old  friends  and  scenes  had  taken  entire  possession 
of  my  heart. 

As  I  sat  here  thinking,  the  image  of  Roland  Hastings  sud 
denly  came  into  my  mind.  I  wondered  if  he  and  Mary  were 
yet  married,  and  what  could  possibly  be  the  meaning  of  the 
little  note  he  had  sent  me,  more  than  a  year  before.  I  had 
long  ago  banished  these  thoughts  from  my  mind ;  for  I  not 
only  considered  them  sinful,  but  I  could  never  indulge  in 
them,  without  a  sad  feeling  creeping  in,  and  destroying  all 
my  peace.  Thoughts  trnd  emotions  which  I  had  long  buried, 
however,  now  came  with  redoubled  force  to  my  memory,  and 
I  soon  found  myself  weeping  violently. 

While  I  sat  here,  unmindful  of  time,  the  shades  of  evening 


BOSTON     COMMON.  257 

crept  slowly  over  the  landscape,  and  I  reluctantly  arose  to 
leave.  Turning  my  head,  I  beheld  a  form  sitting  near  me,  and 
weeping  also.  Through  the  gathering  darkness,  I  could  see 
that  he  was  attired  in  black,  and  had  a  mourning  weed  upon 
his  hat.  There  was  something  in  the  outlines  of  the  figure 
that  made  my  very  heart  almost  cease  its  beating;  and  I 
gazed  upon  it  with  fear  and  hope  alternat'ely  filling  my  bosom. 
Just  then  he  turned,  and  our  eyes  met !  In  an  instant  all  my 
philosophy,  all  my  regard  to  duty,  religion,  and  Ernest,  were 
forgotten,  and  I  found  myself  in  the  stranger's  arms,  my  head 
pillowed  upon  his  bosom,  and  my  heart  beating  against  his 
own,  in  a  rapture  it  had  not  experienced  for  years  before. 
"  Roland !  dear  Boland  !  "  was  all  I  could  say,  as  he  bore  me 
to  a  seat  more  retired  than  the  former,  and  knelt  at  my  feet. 

"  0,  Helen !"  exclaimed  he;  "I  thought  it  would  be  so. 
I  knew  you  loved  me ;  and  I  also  knew  that  if  ever  we  met 
it  would  be  in  this  manner !  0,  beloved  of  my  soul !  look 
up,  and  let  me  tell  you  how  long  and  hopelessly  I  have  loved 
and  mourned  you !  let  me  pour  into  your  bosom  all  the 
anguish  that  has  racked  my  own !  Look  up,  my  Helen,  and 
bless  me  with  but  a  word,  a  glance,  and  I  will  be  content  to 
die,  if  so  be  that  word  and  glance  are  love !  " 

I  lay  weeping  in  his  arms,  too  surprised,  too  happy,  to 
change  my  position.  How  had  I  longed,  months,  and  years, 
for  just  such  a  meeting  with  this  beloved  one !  How  had  I 
sighed  and  wept  for  looks  and  words  of  love  from  him !  and, 
now  that  I  was  blessed  with  even  more  than  I  hoped  for,  I 
was  ready  to  die,  rather  than  resign  my  long-dreamed-of 
bliss ! 

For  a  few  moments  I  lay  thus  weeping  upon  Roland's 
22* 


258  BOSTON     COMMON. 

heart,  unmindful  of  the  place,  my  situation,  or  aught  save 
the  delicious  sensation  that  we  had  met,  and  that  I  was 
happy  —  too  happy  for  words. 

At  length,  with  a  shivering  sensation  of  wretchedness,  the 
thoughts  of  my  engagement  to  another  broke  upon  me,  like 
lightning  from  a  thunder-cloud.  I  tore  myself  from  his  em 
brace,  and,  rising,  endeavored  to  move  from  the  spot.  My 
limbs  refused  to  do  their  accustomed  office,  however,  and  I 
looked  mournfully  towards  my  companion,  as  if  to  invoke 
his  aid. 

"  0,  Roland  !  "  I  sobbed,  "  speak  to  me  !  Let  me  know 
why  you  have  come  to  disturb  my  peace !  " 

Roland,  too,  had  arisen,  and  we  stood  gazing  at  each  other 
in  the  cold  moonlight.  He  was  very  pale,  and  his  black 
dress  set  off  his  fine  face  and  beautiful  figure ;  and  I  half 
imagined  an  angel  was  looking  at  me  from  those  soft,  dark 
eyes. 

"  And  so  I  am  to  be  disappointed  once  more !  "  he  said. 
"  Helen,  is  this  the  manner  in  which  you  repay  my  years  of 
devotion 2  —  is  this  my  reward?  You  ask  me  why  I  came  to 
disturb  your  peace !  What  a  welcome  !  " 

I  dropped  once  more  upon  the  seat,  and  "  0,  Father,  save 
me  from  this  bitter  trial !  "  burst  from  my  agonized  heart.  I 
was  silent  for  a  few  moments.  At  length  Roland  spoke,  and 
his  voice  was  soft  and  tremulous  with  the  emotion  of  his  soul. 

"  Helen,"  he  said,  "  do  you  love  me?" 

"  I  do,  indeed !  "  I  replied ;  "  have  ever  loved  you,  so 
fondly,  so  ardently  —  " 

I  stopped,  and  blushed ;  for  he  was  gazing  at  me  so  ear 
nestly,  that  I  feared  I  had  said  too  much. 


I 

BOSTON     COMMON.  259 


"  0,  blessed  assurance  ! "  answered  Koland ;  "  I  am  now 
happy.  I  could  wish  to  die,  rather  than  live  without  that 
knowledge !  Then,  my  Helen,"  he  continued,  "  as  we  both 
love  so  fondly,  what  prevents  us  from  being  united  at  once, 
and  never  more  separating?  " 

"  Why,  Roland,"  I  answered,  "  I  am,  as  you  know,  en 
gaged  to  Ernest  Richmond ;  and  you,  also,  are  bound  by 
solemn  ties  to  Mary  —  " 

"To  Mary!"  he  interrupted,  "to  Mary!  What  mean 
you,  Helen  ?  Do  you  not,  then,  know  that  the  grave  has  long 
since  closed  over  poor  Mary  Liston  ?  " 

I  was  too  much  shocked  and  surprised  to  reply.  He  went 
on :  "  Mary  died  several  months  ago ;  and  0,  Helen,  she 
died  in  consequence  of  my  desertion !  " 

"  Of  your  desertion  !  "  I  exclaimed.  "  Roland,  she  should 
not  thus  have  been  sacrificed." 

"  I  could  not  help  it,  Helen,"  he  replied.  "  The  idea  that 
you,  whom  I  worshipped,  had  been  lost  to  me  through  her 
means,  had  taken  strong  hold  of  my  mind ;  and  as  it  was 
afterwards  confirmed  by  your  singular,  although,*as  I  think 
truthful  friend,  Letitia  Milford,  I  was  so  disgusted  and  in 
censed  at  Tier  conduct,  that  I  left  her  at  once,  and  left  the 
town  also.  I  came  immediately  to  Boston,  Helen,  and  took 
up  my  residence  near  your  own,  where  I  could  be  blessed 
with  a  sight  of  you  daily.  For  nearly  a  yeajr  have  I  stealth 
ily  watched  you,  .as  you  walked  here,  sometimes  alone,  some 
times  accompanied  by  your  cousin  Ernest.  I  have  scanned 
every  line  of  your  countenance,  and  have  long  since  discov 
ered  that  you  loved  him  not.  I  have  seen  you  at  times  turn 
aside  and  drop  a  tear ;  and  have  often  beheld  you  at  your 


260  BOS'TON    COMMON. 

window,  with  your  eyes  fixed  upon  the  eastern  horizon,  and 
a  look  of  such  sadness  upon  your  brow,  that  I  have  longed  to 
fly  to  you,  and  ask  you,  nay,  beseech  of  you,  to  put  your 
trust  henceforth  in  my  arm  and  heart,  which  were  ready  and 
longing  to  receive  you ;  but  a  fear  of  alarming  you,  and  per 
haps  a  dread  of  your  too  scrupulous  regard  to  duty,  has 
hitherto  prevented  me  from  speaking. 

"About  six  months  ago,"  he  continued,  "I  was  suddenly 
summoned  to  Linden,  to  attend  the  death-bed  of  poor  Mary 
Listen.  She  had,  as  you  are  aware,  always  been  delicate ; 
and  this,  united  with  the  upbraidings  of  conscience,  and  her 
ardent  love  for  my  unworthy  self,  had  hurried  her  into  a 
consumption. 

"  She  received  me  with  a  calm  smile,  acknowledged  the 
wrong  she  had  done  you  in  times  past,  told  me  of  her  deep 
affection  for  me,  and,  begging  my  forgiveness,  died,  a  few  hours 
after  my  arrival,  in  these  arms.  Her  death  was  a  happy  one, 
however,  and  she  is  better  at  rest.  At  her  request  I  donned 
these  weeds,  and  shall  wear  them  a  few  months  longer. 

"Assured  as  I  now  felt  of  your  love,  dearest  Helen,  a  few 
days  after*  the  funeral  of  Mary  Liston,  I  departed  from  Lin 
den  to  Boston,  once  more.  I  was  now  determined,  in  spite 
of  your  formidable  cousin,  to  see  you,  and  pour  into  your 
heart  all  the.  love  of  my  own.  I  have  done  so,  and  now  lie  at 
your  entire  disposal.  In  mercy,  Helen,  deal  not  too-  harshly 
with  one  who  aiores  you !  Speak,  and  tell  me  that,  in  pity 
to  my  long  sufferings,  you  will  break  all  other  engagements 
for  me !  Say  you  will  be  mine  !  " 

For  a  long  time  after  he  had  ceased  speaking  I  remained 
in  deep  thought.  Mary's  death  surprised  and  pained  me ;  but, 


BOSTON     COMMON.  261 

0,  how  happy,  how  blest,  did  I  feel,  that  I  had  been  enabled, 
by  God's  blessing,  faithfully  to  perform  my  duty  to  her ! 
Roland's  secret  surveillance  of  me  surprised  me  much.  That 
a  person  whom  I  so  dearly  loved  should  have  been  near  me 
for  months,  and  I  not  cognizant  of  it,  was  a  deep  mystery  to 
me;  and  I  questioned  Roland  concerning  it. 

His  reply  was,  that  he  always  contrived  to  walk  in  the 
shadow  of  the  trees ;  and  that,  as  I  generally  appeared  to  be 
thinking  of  something  far  away,  and  did  not  take  much  notice 
of  the  present,  and  that  as  Ernest  had  never  seen  him,  he  had 
hitherto  escaped  recognition. 

At  length  I  arose,  and,  telling  Roland  I  should  be  missed 
from  home,  prepared  to  depart. 

"  0,  Helen ! "  said  he,  mournfully,  "  can  you  leave  me  thus  ?  " 

"  I  must,  Roland,"  I  replied ;  "  my  friends  will  be  alarmed 
at  my  long  absence,  and  will  come  in  pursuit  of  me.  It 
would  not  be  well  for  us  to  be  seen  together." 

"And  am  I  to  have  no  confirmation  of  your  love?  "  he  ex 
claimed.  "  Am  I  to  be  doomed  forever  to  misery  ?  0, 
Helen ! " 

I  looked  at  him ;  he  was  very  pale,  and  his  face,  always 
beautiful  as  a  dream,  bore  the  impress  of  deep  sorrow.  His 
hair  was  da.mp  and  tangled,  and  floated  wildly  over  the 
broad,  open  brow.  His  eyes,  dark,  soft,  and  dreamy,  were 
suffused  in  tears.  I  thought  of  Harry,  and,  invoking  his 
sainted  spirit  to  aid  me,  took  Roland's  hand  in  mine,  and 
said  : 

"  I  do  indeed  love  you  —  have  long  done  so.  I  look  upon 
my  present  engagement  as  a  false  one.  It  was  forced  upon 
me  in  an  unlawful  manner,  and,  although  my  lips  consented, 


262  BOSTON     COMMON. 

my  whole  nature  revolted  against  it.  I  thus  break  the  ties 
that  were  forced  upon  me,  and  God  forgive  m«  if  I  am  doing 
wrong  !  but,  Roland,  here,  in  this  calm,  sweet  retreat,  —  here,  in 
this  sequestered  bower,  with  the  blue  heavens  smiling  above 
me,  and  the  holy  influence  of  nature  around  me,  —  I  promise  to 
love  only  where  my  heart  directs,  —  1  promise  to  wed  only 
with  you." 

Roland  had  fallen  on  his  knees  by  my  side,  and,  as  I  spoke, 
he  scarcely  drew  his  breath,  but  listened  eagerly  to  the  words 
as  they  fell  from  my  lips.  At  the  conclusion,  he  arose  and 
wildly  clasped  me  to  his  breast. 

"  God  bless  you,  Helen  !  "  he  said,  "  mine  own,  my  wife  ! 
Bless  you  for  the  words  you  have  uttered  !  You  have,  in 
deed,  restored  happiness  to  my  aching  heart  once  more.  And 
now,  Helen,  when  shall  I  have  the  bliss  of  seeing  you  again  ? 
Will  you  come  often  to  this  sweet  spot  to  meet  me  ?  Tell  me 
the  hour,  the  minute,  that  I  may  be  here." 

"  No,  Roland,"  I  replied,  "  I  cannot  do  that.  I  must  have 
no  secret  meetings  with  a  lover  upon  the  Common.  All  shall 
be  fairly  and  openly  done  on  my  part.  I  will  own  all  in  a 
little  while.  Until  then,  you  must  be  content  with  what  has 
passed  this  evening,  and  rest  assured  that  the  time  will  soon 
come  when  all  will  be  well."  • 

We  had  now  reached  the  entrance  of  the  hotel,  and, 
bidding  each  other  adieu,  with  many  looks  and  assurances 
of  love,  we  separated. 

With  what  a  whirl  of  emotions  did  I  seek  my  couch  this 
night !  I  had  seen  Roland,  —  had  leaned  upon  his  breast, 
and  wept  away  all  the  pent-up  grief  of  years,  in  one  sweet 
shower  of  tears,  —  had  told  him  of  my  long-cherished  love, 


BOSTON     COMMON.  263 

had  been  assured  by  his  looks  and  manners  that  his  heart  was 
all  my  own,  aftd  had,  more  wonderful  than  all,  yielded  to 
the  dictates  of  my  heart,  and  pronounced  words,  in  the  pres 
ence  of  my  Maker,  that  bound  me  forever  to  him.  Had  I 
done  right?  Engrossed  entirely  with  the  delightful  emotions 
of  my  new  position,  I  scarcely  asked  this  question,'  but  satis 
fied  myself  with  thinking,  "  I  have  no  right  to  condemn  a 
being  who  loves  me  to  misery.  I  have  no  right  to  be  miser 
able  myself,  when  I  can,  by  following  the  dictates  of  my  own 
heart,  be  supremely  happy ;  neither  have  I,  a  free-born,  in 
telligent  creature,  any  right  whatever  to  continue  under  this 
detestable  servitude  to  my  cousin,  which  my  heart  refuses  to 
sanction.  All  the  world,  even  Harry  himself,  would  not  con 
demn  me  for  following  my  inclinations  in  this  particular. 
Now,  then,  to  break  my  bonds,  to  open  my  prison-doors,  and 
set  myself  indeed  free." 

This,  as  the  reader  is  already  aware,  would  be  no  easy 
matter.  My  guardian,  his  wife,  my  parents  and  brothers,  all 
my  relations  and  friends,  even  Kate  Merton  herself,  were  on 
Ernest's  side.  There  existed  not  a  soul  upon  the  face  of  the 
earth,  save  Letitia  Milford,  who  could  assist  me  one  jot  or 
tittle  in  discarding  him ;  and  aid  from  her  could  be  of  no 
possible  use  to  me. 

Independent  of  my  friends,  I  had"  Ernest  himself,  the 
strongest  party  of  all,  to  contend  with.  He,  I  knew,  would 
never  release  me.  No  words  or  persuasions  of  mine  could  or 
would  induce  him  to  alter  his  determination  one  hair.  There 
was  not  a  shadow  of  hope  from  that  quarter,  or  from  any 
other  that  I  knew  of.  Ernest  had  persuaded  himself  that  he 
alone  was  the  fit  guide  of  my  youth ;  that  he  alone  was 


264  BOSTON     COMMON. 

capable  of  keeping  me  in  the  paths  of  duty,  and  that  if  I 
were  lost  to  him  I  should  be  lost  to  all  the  world.  Time  has 
proved,  dear  Ernest,  that  you  were  right  in  your  suppositions. 
You  were  the  only  safe  rock  for  my  feet  here.  Without  you 
I  should  indeed  have  been  lost. 

With  all  these  thoughts  in  my  heart,  I  half  resolved  to 
keep  my  guardian  and  Ernest  in  entire  ignorance  of  my  plan, 
and  to  induce  them  to  let  me  spend  the  summer  at  home. 
I  felt  almost  assured  that  I  could  persuade  my  mother  to  let 
me  have  my  way;  for,  in  seeing  and  hearing  of  my  troubles 
the  summer  before,  she  had  appeared  very  much  softened 
and  touched. 

Full  of  these  resolutions,  I  arose  the  next  morning,  and 
descended  to  my  uncle's  room.  He  was  busily  engaged  in 
writing,  and  Ernest  stood  at  his  side.  I  seated  myself  at  a 
window,  and,  taking  up  a  book,  which  was  upside  down, 
awaited  his  leisure.  In  a  few  moments  he  looked  up. 

"  You  have  come  in  most  opportunely,  my  dear  little  girl," 
he  said.  "  Please  sit  down  here  and  sign  your  name  to  that 
paper." 

I  arose,  and,  approaching  the  table,  hastily  ran  my  eyes 
tiver  the  document.  It  was  my  marriage  contract  with  my 
cousin !  Horror-stricken,  I  dropped  the  pen  and  retreated. 

"  Well,"  said  my  guardian,  "  what  does  this  mean  ?  " 

"And  what  does  this  mean,  sir  ?  "  I  exclaimed,  snatching 
the  paper  from  the  table,  and  thrusting  it  under  his  eyes. 

"  That,"  said  he,  quite  calmly  —  "  that  is  your  marriage  con 
tract  with  your  cousin  Ernest,  and  gives  you  and  all  your 
rich  lands  to  him,  the  first  day  of  June  next.  Is  it  a  matter 
of  so  much  surprise,  after  having  been  engaged  to  this  gentle- 


BOSTON     COMMON.  265 

man  so  long,  that  he  should  now  wish  to  claim  his  bride  ? 
Why  do  you  ask,  with  such  a  face  of  wonder,  '  what  does  this 
mean  ? ' " 

I  sank  into  a  seat,  and,  covering  my  face  with  both  hands, 
silently  asked  God  to  direct  me  in  this  trial.  Ernest  was 
standing  at  one  of  the  windows,  engaged  in  profound  thought. 
How  I  hated  him,  at  that  moment,  for  thus  coolly  looking 
upon  my  sufferings  and  weakness,  and  taking  advantage  of 
them !  The  time  had  now  come  for  me  to  act,  however,  and, 
rising,  with  all  my  soul  in  my  words,  I  commenced  thus : 

"  Uncle  Thomas,  neither  you  nor  my  cousin  there  has  any 
right  whatever  Co  force  me  into  a  compliance  with  your  wishes. 
This  engagement  was  made  under  a  false  idea  that  I  should 
be  breaking  my  word  if  I  did  not  promise  to  marry  Ernest. 
I  did  lie,  however,  unto  my  own  heart,  when  I  told  Ernest 
I  would  be  his ;  God  forgive  me  for  that !  I  never  disputed 
your  will,  uncle  Thomas,  when  I  thought  that  your  commands 
were  for  my  good ;  but  now,  when  I  see  that  you  use  tyranny 
in  order  to  accomplish  your  wishes,  I  boldly  burst  my  bonds, 
and  proclaim  my  freedom  !  I  have,  like  the  rest  of  my 
family,  a  strong  will,  which  I  shall  exercise.  I  cannot,  will 
not,  marry  Ernest,  although  I  tove  him  as  a  dear  brother,  and 
respect  and  honor  his  noble  character.  I  love  another,  and 
my  heart  refuses  homage  to  all  but  that  other  !  " 

For  several  moments  after  my  long  speech,  my  guardian 
and  cousin  stood  looking  at  -  me  in  perfect  amazement. 
Could  this  be  the  little  Helen  whom  they  had  so  long  held  in 
subjection  ?  They  were  evidently  much  surprised,  and  formed 
quite  a  different  opinion  of  me  very  suddenly.  At  length  my 
guardian,  bursting  into  a  loud  laugh,  and  saying,  "  Well, 
23 


266  BOSTON     COMMON. 

well,  Ernest,  I  leave  this  little  incorrigible  in  your  charge,  — 
you  can  understand  her  much  better  than  I,"  left  the  room. 

I  sat  down  in  my  chair,  and  cast  a  trembling  look  towards 
Ernest.  He  was  leaning  against  the  window.  His  face, 
although  partly  concealed  from  me,  I  could  see  was  very  pale, 
and  convulsed  with  emotion.  I  pitied  him ;  for,  with  all  his 
harshness,  he  had  really  been  kind  to  me,  and  I  truly  and 
ardently  admired. his  lofty  character.  After  a  *few  moments 
of  profound  silence,  he  slowly  approached  the  table,  and 
seated  himself  by  my  side.  Every  trace  of  emotion  had  dis 
appeared.  His  face  wore  the  same  calm  look,  his  brow 
was  unclouded  as  ever,  but  there  played  in  those  cold  gray 
eyes  a  fearful  light,  which  made  my  poor  heart  tremble. 

"  Helen,"  said  he,  and  his  voice  sounded  like  a  deep-toned 
bell,  "  I  love  you  fondly  and  sincerely,  —  have  done  so  ever 
since  you  were  a  child.  Long  ago  I  discovered  your  disposi 
tion  from  your  portrait,  and  in  later  years  my  close  intimacy 
with  you  has  confirmed  in  me  the  opinion  that  I  was  right. 
You  have  fine  talents,  and  a  large  fortune.  Both  these  I  wish 
you  to  devote  to  the  cause  of  God.  I  do  not  want  these 
precious  gifts  of  his  to  be  squandered  in  the  idle  pomps  and 
vanitfes  of  the  world.  For  this  holy  cause,  united  with  my 
love,  have  I  labored  long  and  earnestly.  I  have  yielded  to 
no  selfish  motives,  notwithstanding  my  affection  for  you,  but 
have  sought  your  sole  interest  in  my  every  action  towards 
you.  Helen,  I  am,  as  you  very  well  know,  to  be  a  minister 
of  the  everlasting  Gospel.  I  am  to  carry  tidings  of  good 
news  to  sinners ;  but  I  need  you  with  me ;  for,  united,  we 
should  be  powerful  laborers  in  the  vineyard.  Besides,  Helen, 
I  am  fearful  lest  you  should  go  astray.  I  wish,  in  obedience  to 


BOSTON     COMMON.  267 

our  lost  Harry's  request,  to  endeavor,  by  God's  blessing,  to 
keep  you  in  the  only  safe  and  happy  way.  I  wish  you  to 
devote  yourself  to  your  blessed  Maker's  cause. 

"  In  pursuance  of  this  plan,  Helen,  I  have  hastened  our 
marriage;  for  I  am  anxious  to  begin  my  labors  of  love, 
and,  therefore,  if  you  would  be  a  faithful  follower  of  Christ, 
if  you  would  be  a  laborer  in  his  vineyard,  if  you  would  obey 
the  last  injunction  of  Harry  Glenmore,  if  you  would  not,  in 
short,  doom  a  strong,  brave  heart  to  disappointment,  if  you 
would  not  crush  his  energies  forever,  and  render  his  life  dark, 
gloomy,  and  misanthropic,  say  no  more  of  your  foolish  fancy 
for  the  weak-minded,  worldly  being  to  whom  you  have 
alluded,  but  yield,  my  Helen,  now,  while  you  are  young  and 
strong,  now,  while  your  fortune  is  at  your  disposal,  now,  while 
you  can  cast  your  talents,  heart,  and  purse,  into  the  treasury 
of  the  Lord,  —  and  sign  that  paper  !  " 

Every  word  that  Ernest  uttered  sank  deep  into  my  heart. 
I  saw  and  appreciated  at  once  his  lofty,  self-denying  spirit.  I 
was  spell-bound  with  admiration  of  the  noble  being,  who  stood, 
in  all  the  beauty  and  glory  of  his  manly  strength,  and  pleaded  so 
earnestly  for  his  God.  The  remembrance  of  Roland,  however, 
and  his  pale  sad  face,  also  my  solemn  vow  of  the  evening  before, 
rose  in  startling  colors  before  me,  and  I  found  strength  to  reply. 

"  Ernest,"  said  I,  "  I  cannot  sign  that  paper ;  but  I  will 
sign  one  giving  you  my  fortune,  if  you  wish,  for  the  purposes 
you  have  mentioned ;  but  I  cannot  be  your  wife,  for  I  am 
promised  to  another  !  " 

I  stopped,  for  my  companion  had  arisen,  and  was  gazing 
upon  me  with  surprise.  He  made  no  comment,  however, 
upon  my  last  words,  but  said,  with  coldness  and  asperity, 


268  BOSTON     COMMON. 

"  Very  well,  Helen,  you  are  at  liberty  to  follow  your  own 
inclinations.  I  cannot  bear  to  give  you  up,  but,  as  you  sin 
cerely  wish  it,  I  release  you  for  a  while  —  remember,  only  for 
a  while.  I  give  you,  with  all  your  wealth,  youth,  and  talents, 
to  Roland  Hastings ;  but  I  foresee  a  bitter  awakening  for  you. 
I  foresee  a  time  when  God's  vengeance  will  overtake  you,  for 
thus  refusing  to  sacrifice  yourself  to  Him.  Then,  Helen,  when 
sick  of  the  world,  when  weary  and  disgusted  with  its  idle 
vanities,  when,  with  fortune  spent,  and  perhaps  strength  also, 
when  almost  ready  to  expire  with  your  burden,  come  back  to 
me,  —  come  to  these  arms,  which  will  never  fail  to  be  open 
and  ready  to  receive  you ;  come,  rest  your  weary  head  upon 
this  bosom,  which  will  never  cease,  through  time  and  eternity, 
to  beat  with  the  fondest,  sincerest  affection  for  you ;  and, 
above  all,  come  to  your  God,  who  will  not  fail,  although  at 
the  eleventh  hour,  to  place  his  everlasting  arms  about  you, 
and  to  bear  you  safely  through  the  dark  waters  of  affliction.'1 

He  ceased,  and  I  leaned  back  in  my  chair,  and,  in  spite  of 
his  release  of  me,  felt  as  though  my  heart  were  bursting. 

"And  so,  Ernest,"  I  at  length  ventured  to  say,  "you  do 
really  -consent  to  my  union  with  Roland  ?  " 

"  I  do,"  he  answered,  "  since  I  have  no  other  alternative." 

"  And  my  fortune  —  Ernest,  will  you  accept  of  that  ?  " 

"  Use  your  gold  yourself,  Helen,  —  do  just  what  you  please 
with  it.  Unless  I  am  to  be  your  husband,  I  would  not,  for 
worlds,  touch  one  farthing  of  it." 

*'  But,"  said  I,  "  why  do  you  prophesy  so  dark  a  future 
for  me  ?  Why  do  you  ask  me  to  return  to  you  when  I  am 
sick  of  life,  and  ready  to  die,  &c.  ?  " 

"  Because,  Helen,"  he  replied,  with  much  solemnity,  "  I 


BOSTON     COMMON. 

have  told  you  that  you  were  sent  here  to  fulfil  a  great  duty. 
God  designed  you  for  his  service.  Allured  by  the  pleasures 
of  the  world,  however,  you  chose  your  own  path.  You  may 
be  happy  for  a  while,  but  the  day  of  reckoning  will  come. 
God  grant  it  come  not  too  late  for  repentance !  I  almost  see 
you,  Helen,  with  a  broken  heart,  wasted  fortune  and  energies, 
lying  low  at  my  feet,  and  craving  for  one  former  smile  of 
love.  I  see  you  again  reinstated  in  my  heart,  your  whole 
affections  mine.  I  see  you  seated  at  my  side,  as  my  wife ;  for 
my  wife  you  surely  will  -  be,  some  day,  Helen,  although  you 
struggle  now  so  hard  against  it.  It  is  fixed  and  inevitable 
as  the  destiny  of  man.  By  my  hastening  matters  at  present 
I  only  wished  to  spare  you  years  of  unnecessary  trouble  and 
anguish.  I  but  wish  to  make  you  happy,  by  making  you 
good  and  wise.  I  wished  to  spare  you  the  misery  which  lost 
time,  wasted  fortune,  and  misapplied  energies,  always  bring. 
But  this  is  all  past,  and  you  are,  as  I  said  before,  at  liberty 
to  follow  the  bent  of  your  own  inclinations." 

Was  my  cousin  a  prophet  ?  I  already  fancied  his  words 
true,  and  glanced  fearfully  through  my  future.  I  asked 
myself,  tremblingly,  if  it  could  be  true  that  I  should  marry 
Roland  and  be  ruined,  as  all  my  friends  had  prophesied  time 
and  again  ;  and  that  I  should  lose  him  by  death,  and  after 
wards  marry  Ernest.  I  almost  feared  it  might  be  so,  and 
my  heart  smote  me  for  bringing  anguish  upon  such  a  noble 
being.  Suddenly  a  thought  struck  me. 

"  My  friends,  Ernest —  I  shall  have  them  to  contend  with." 

"  No,  Helen,"  he  answered,  "  I  will  arrange  that  for  you 

also.     Your  parents,  your  guardian,  and  all,  will  surrender 

you  freely  to  Roland.     I  myself  will  bear  you  their  consent." 

23* 


270  BOSTON     COMMON. 

"  Noble  being,"  I  sobbed,  "  you  are  indeed  a  friend  to  me ! 
But,  O,  Ernest,  do  not,  I  pray  you,  suffer  on  my  account ! 
I  am  unworthy  of  you  —  indeed  I  am.     Forget  me,  and  seek" 
for  some  other,  some  better  —  " 

"  Hush,  Helen,"  said  he,  calmly,  "  not  a  word  of  that.  My 
feelings  I  will  take  care  of —  please  think  of  your  own. 
Now  for  your  plans.  You  had  best  get  ready  as  soon  as 
possible,  and  pass  the  summer  with  your  mother  and  lover, 
at  Linden.  Marry  just  whenever  and  wherever  you  please. 
I  need  not  ask  you  to  be  happy,  —  you  will  be  so  for  a  while, 
at  least,  —  but,  0,  my  dear  Helen,  never,  in  the  temptations 
which  may  assail  your  path,  never,  in  the  troubles  which  will 
assuredly  be  yours,  forget  your  God !  Pray  daily  to  Him. 
Struggle  for  a  blessing.  Watch  carefully  your  conduct.  Be 
good,  and  God  forever  bless  you !  " 

He  arose,  and,  without  another  word  or  look,  left  the  room 
and  house.  I  immediately  sat  down,  not  daring  to  trust  my 
self  with  reflection,  and  indited  a  little  note  to  Roland,  telling 
him  that  I  was  going  home  very  soon,  to  remain  with  my 
mother  through  the  summer ;  and  that,  if  he  chose  to  call  that 
evening,  he  could  do  so  with  perfect  safety,  for  everything 
was  arranged  for  his  reception. 

How  happy  was  I  all  day  — how  blithe  and  light-hearted  ! 
I  moved  softly  about  the  house,  and  sang,  in  a  gayer  voice 
than  I  had  done  for  many  months,  snatches  of  old,  long-for 
gotten  songs.  The  idea  of  my  cousin's  unhappiness  would, 
however,  creep  in,  and  at  times  damp  all  my  joy ;  but,  as  I 
met  him  at  dinner,  and.  he  appeared  perfectly  calm  and  com 
posed,  I  was  quite  reiissured,  and  conversed  with  my  usual 
ease. 


BOSTON     COMMON.  271 

The  storm  had  broken  upon  Ernest's  head  in  all  its  fury, 
but  it  had  no  power  to  harm,  or  even  move  him.  It  was  like 
the  waters  dashing  against  a  rock  —  they  raged  and  foamed, 
but  the  rock  still  remained ;  and  when  the  clouds  rolled 
away,  and  the  sunshine  again  streamed  full  upon  it,  no  trace 
of  the  fury  which  had  played  over  it  could  be  seen. 

In  the  evening  I  was  made  still  happier  by  the  presence 
of  my  lover.  .  My  guardian,  his  wife,  and  even  Ernest, 
received  him  with  the  warmth  of  old  friends,  and  I  was  quite 
piqued"  that  the  latter  betrayed  no  more  emotion  at  the 
sight  of  the  destroyer  of  his  peace.  I  glanced  at  him  as  I 
presented  the  young  men  to  each  other.  Not  a  word  or  sign 
betrayed  that  Roland  was  anything  more  to  him  than  any 
other  person ;  but  he  conversed  with  him  as  sensibly  as  if 
they  had  been  old  friends,  who  had  met  after  a  lengthened 
separation. 

"  The  insensible  being !  "  thought  I.  "  I  do  not  believe  that 
he  is  so  very  wretched,  after  all,  at  my  choice.  He  could  not, 
surely,  if  he  were  miserable,  appear  so  very  calm." 

I  did  not  then  fully  understand  the  depth  and  beauty  of 
Ernest's  character.  I  knew  not  how  completely  he  could 
subdue  his  will,  and  make  an  erftire  sacrifice  of  his  inclina 
tions,  for  the  happiness  or  good  of  another. 

But  why  stop  to  enumerate  all  the  happy  meetings  with 
Roland?  Why  expatiate  upon  our  walks,  our  rides,  our 
sweet  blissful  hours  of  converse  together,  when  seated  upon 
the  sofa,  or  wandering  hand  in  hand  through  the  labyrinths 
of  the  Common  ?  Suffice  it  to  say,  that  my  cup  was  now  full 
to  the  brim.  My  heart  expanded,  grew  larger  and  more 
benevolent;  my  sympathies  were  more  easily  excited  in  favor 


272  BOSTON    COMMON. 

of  the  suffering,  and  a  striking  change  was  soon  visible  in  my 
whole  appearance,  to  every  one  who  saw  me.  My  form  sud 
denly  grew  rounder  and  fuller ;  my  eyes  resumed  their  former 
laughing,  happy  expression,  and  a  childish  glee  seemed  to 
have  taken  the  place  of  my  late  dignified  reserve.  I  was 
once  more  the  happy,  merry  girl  of  fifteen,  and  prepared  to 
return  home  with  my  uncle,  aunt,  and  affianced  husband,  with 
more  cheerfulness  and  alacrity  than  I  had  experienced  for 
years  before. 

I  had  expected  and  dreaded  a  disagreeable  interview  with 
Ernest  before  my  departure  ;  but  even  this  was  foreseen,  and 
carefully  avoided  by  his  thoughtfulness.  We  were  to  leave 
for  the  east  in  the  afternoon  train.  Early  in  the  morning  I 
received  a  little  note  from  him,  accompanied  with  a  package. 
I  opened  the  note  first.  It  read  as  follows : 

"DEAR  COUSIN: 

"  You  must  pardon  me  for  thus  avoiding  the  disagreeable 
task  of  bidding  you  farewell  personally  :  even  my  iron  nerves 
are  not  proof  against  the  misery  we  should  both  experience  in 
a  last  encounter.  Before  you  receive  this  I  shall  be  many 
miles  upon  a  journey  I  have  long  projected.  I  have  decided 
upon  going  to  Europe,  before  taking  charge  of  my  flock,  and 
entering  upon  my  ministerial  duties  at  Boston.  I  shall  visit 
England,  France,  Switzerland,  and  Italy,  and  may  be  absent 
three  or  four  years.  Should  you  at  the  altar,  Helen,  or  at  any 
time  previous  to  that,  see  occasion  to  change  your  mind  con 
cerning  your  marriage,  remember  that  I  still  love  you,  and 
am  always  ready  to  forget  the  past.  I  will  arrange  it  so  that 
you  may  know  where  to  find  me  when  you  wish. 


BOSTON     COMMON.  273 

"  I  shall  always  watch  over  you  and  yours  with  a  prayer 
ful  interest.  Be  careful,  Helen,  of  your  husband's  happiness 
and  well-being.  Avoid  the  first  inclinations  towards  strife 
between  you.  Keep  a  strict  watch  over  his  conduct,  and 
your  own  also ;  and  if  he  fall,  0,  my  Helen  !  see  that  you 
fall  not  with  him.  Keep  yourself  pure  and  unspotted  from 
the  world ;  waste  not  your  wealth  and  talents  in  vanity. 

"  Will  you  please  accept  this  little  Bible,  and  read  it  care 
fully  every  day  ?  You  cannot  deviate  far  from  virtue's  paths, 
if  you  make  this  a  rule  of  your  conduct. 

"  I  could  write  to  you,  Helen,  for  hours,  my  heart  is  so 
full ;  but  let  what  I  have  said  suffice.  Now,  may  the  Al 
mighty  Father  have  you  and  yours  ever  in  his  holy  care, 
and  bless  you  always  ! 

"  From  your  cousin, 

'•ERNEST  RICHMOND." 

I  shed  a  few  tears  over  Ernest's  note,  and  breathed  a 
prayer  for  his  happiness.  I  then  untied  the  package,  and 
examined  the  Bible.  It  was  plain  and  substantial,  and  evi 
dently  made  for  constant  use.  On  the  fly-leaf  was  written, 
in  my  cousin's  hand,  "  From  Ernest  to  Helen."  Underneath 
was  the  text  "  watch  and  pray."  The  book  was  marked  by 
him  with  passages  for  my  daily  study.  I  pressed  it  to  my 
lips,  and,  resolving  that  it  should  be  my  constant  companion, 
placed  it  in  my  travelling-bag. 

In  the  early  part  of  the  afternoon  I  formed  a  beautiful 
wreath  of  natural  flowers,  and,  stealing  a  few  moments  from 
Roland's  side,  visited  Harry's  grave.  I  obtained  permission 
from  the  keeper  of  the  cemetery  to  enter  the  gate,  and,  closing 
it  behind  me,  proceeded  to  the  spot. 


274  BOSTON     COMMON. 

The  grave  was  surrounded  by  trees,  and  half  buried  in  the 
foliage  of  early  June  ;  but,  pushing  it  aside,  I  found  my  way 
through,  and  knelt  upon  the  mound.  "  0,  Harry !  "  sobbed  I, 
"  if  I  have  done  wrong,  or  contrary  to  what  you  would  have 
advised,  had  you  been  living,  forgive  me,  and  may  God  for 
give  me  also  !  0,  let  me  be  happy  in  the  new  position  I  am 
about  to  assume ;  'and,  above  all,  let  me  live  so  that  I  may 
fulfil  thy  dying  request,  dear  Harry  !  " 

"  What  strange  adventures  I  may  go  through  before  I 
again  visit  this  spot !  "  thought  I.  "  I  have  a  half  foreboding 
of  evil,  but  must  endeavor  to  shake  it  off;  for  it  will,  if  cher 
ished,  destroy  all  my  happiness.  I'll  think  of  it  no  more." 

I  arose,  and  hung  the  wreath  upon  the  head-stone ;  then, 
with  my  own  hands,  planted  a  little  white  rose-bush  upon  the 
grave.  After  dropping  one  more  farewell  tear  to  the  memory 
of  the  sainted  Harry,  I  turned  and  left  the  cemetery.  I 
passed  by  the  spot  where  Harry  had  breathed  his  last,  and 
bade  it  adieu  with  a  sigh.  I  then  visited  the  old  elm- 
tree,  and  the  little  "hill  beyond,  where  I  had  enjoyed  so 
many  happy  hours.  I  bade  them  a  long  and  tearful  farewell ; 
and,  as  the  afternoon  was  now  far  advanced,  hastily  left  the 
Common,  and  pursued  my  way  home. 

As  we  were  getting  into  the  carriage  which  was  to  convey 
us  to  the  depot,  Letitia  Milford  came  rushing  down  stairs, 
her  hair  flying,  her  eyes  bathed  in  tears,  and  her  whole  ap 
pearance  indicative  of  the  deepest  distress. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  now  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  0,  Helen,  dearest,"  she  replied,  "  I  am  about  to  undergo 
another  separation  from  you,  the  beloved  of  my  soul,  my 
early  fond  companion  !  How  can  I  be  otherwise  than  sad  ? 


BOSTON     COMMON.  275 

Alas !  I  shall  scarcely  expect  to  survive  your  loss  this  time, 
my  Helen  ! " 

"  0  yes,  Letise,"  I  replied,  sarcastically,  "  you  will  live, 
and  be  consoled  by  some  gay  ball  or  party  to-night." 

"Ungrateful  and  cruel  Helen!"  she  answered,  weeping; 
"  how  can  you,  in  our  moment  of  separation,  treat  me  thus  ? 
How  can  you,  after  so  many  protestations  of  friendship  on 
my  part,  speak  of  a  trifling  party,  or  a  miserable  ball,  as 
being  a  means  of  consolation  in  your  absence?  Hear  me, 
Helen,"  she  continued,  "while  I  invoke  Heaven  to  witness, 
that  so  long  as  Tremont  Temple,  Faneuil  Hall,  or  the  State 
House  stand,  so  long  will  my  friendship  for  you  endure ;  that 
not  all  the  allurements  of  this  vain  world,  not  all  the  riches, 
nor  the  many,  many  friends  which  will  cluster  around  my  path, 
will  drive  you  one  moment  from  my  heart.  No  !  you  will  ever 
reign  supreme  there ;  and,  I  will  never,  never  forget  you,  my 
own  darling  Helen  !  " 

"  Thank  you,  Letise,"  I  replied,  dryly  ;  "  but  now  take  care 
of  yourself,  and  do  not  break  your  neck  in  crossing  the  moun 
tains,  this  summer  ;  and  be  careful,  also,  of  hearts,  —  they,  too, 
may  be  broken,  you  know." 

Letitia  had,  at  the  conclusion  of  her  great  speech,  pressed 
her  handkerchief  convulsively  to  her  eyes ;  but  she  quickly 
forgot  her  grief  in  anticipated  future  conquests ;  and  when 
the  carriage  drove  from  the  door  she  was  smiling  so  sweetly 
that  one  would  never  have  supposed  her  heart  had  been 
breaking  but  a  few  moments  before. 


CHAPTER    XXVII. 

"Bride    and  bridegroom,  pilgrims  of    life,   henceforward  to  travel  to 
gether, 
In  this,    the  beginning   of  your   journey,  neglect    not   the   favor  of 

Heaven  : 

Marriage  is  a  figure  and  an  earnest  of  holier  things  unseen, 
And  this  is  the  sum  of  the  matter  :  if  ye  will  be  happy  in  marriage, 
Confide,  love,  and  be  patient  :  be  faithful,  firm,  and  holy." 

PROVERBIAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

ON  one  bright  evening,  dear  reader,  did  I  arrive  at  that 
home  from  which  I  had  been  absent  for  more  than  two  years. 
My  parents,  brothers,  and  little  sister,  were  overjoyed  to  see 
me.  Katherine  Merton  was  not  at  home,  but  was  expected 
the  next  day.  She  arrived ;  and  when  I  had  held  her  onco 
more  to  my  heart,  my  joy  was  indeed  full. 

"  Why,  ma  chere  Katrine,"  exclaimed  I,  "  how  very  beau 
tiful  you  have  grown  !  " 

"  And  you  too,  dearest  Helen,"  she  replied.  "  Love  has 
surely  been  at  work,  with  his  rosy  fingers,  upon  that  cheek. 
You  are  no  longer  the  pale,  drooping  being  of  two  years 
agone,  my  Nell.  Your  eyes  have  lost  the  pensive  expression 
that  once  saddened  them.  Your  cheek  is  fair  as  a  peach, 
and  your  mouth  constantly  wreathed  with  smiles." 

Now,  my  dear,  credulous  reader,  you  are  not  to  suppose, 


BOSTON    COMMON.  277 

from  my  friend  Katie's  description,  that  I  was  beautiful,  for 
I  was  not.  You  must  judge  of  me- as  you  have  hitherto  found 
me,  and  make  allowances  for  her  partiality. 

But  Katie  was  really  beautiful.  She  had  large  hazel  eyes, 
full  of  speaking  intelligence;  a  fair,  open  brow,  over  which 
the  rich  brown  hair  was  combed  with  a  smoothness  very  Ma 
donna-like.  A  sweet  smile  played  around  her  mouth,  and 
somewhat  relieved  the  otherwise  serious  expression  of  her 
lovely  face. 

I  talked  a  long  while  with  Kate  concerning  my  present 
prospects,  my  happiness,  my  lover,  &c.,  and  then  told  her  of 
cousin  Ernest.  She  seemed  very  much  interested  in  him,  and 
I  said  to  her,  jokingly,  that  she  would  be  just  the  best  wife  in 
the  world  for  him.  Katie  shook  her  head,  and  then  revealed 
to  me  the  astounding  news  that  she  was  already  engaged. 

"  To  whom  ?  "  I  asked,  in  surprise. 

"  0,  to  nobody,"  she  replied  ;  "  that  is,  to  somebody —  in 
deed,  I  scarcely  know  who  he  is,  Helen  ;  for  I  care  nothing 
about  him.  I  was  visiting,  last  summer,  in  a  country  village 
near  this,  and  the  eldest  son  of  the  richest  man  in  the  place 
had  the  foolishness  to  fall  desperately  in  love  with  me.  He 
said  he  should  die  if  I  did  not  marry  him ;  and  so  I  con 
sented  — just  to  save  his  life,  you  know.  His  name  is  Hor 
ace  Wilds  —  a  fine  name  ;  is  n't  it,  Helen  ?  " 

"  Why,  Katie,  don't  you  love  him  ?  "  I  asked,  in  surprise. 
"  I  do  not  know  what  you  mean  by  talking  so  lightly  of  so 
serious  a  subject." 

"  Love  him  ?  "  she  replied.  "  No,  not  I.  I  do  not  love 
any  one  but  you,  H%len." 

"  Thank  you,  darling,"  I  said ;  "  I  am  quite  happy  in  your 
24 


278  BOSTON     COMMON. 

affection ;  but,   Katie,  you  must  not  marry  without  loving 
your  husband.     'T  would  be  awful,  you  know." 

"  0,  would  it  ?  "  replied  she.  "  Well,  my  parents  are 
very  anxious  for  the  match ;  and  I  may  as  well  obey  them  in 
this  respect  as  in  any  other,  I  suppose." 

I  had  never  heard   Katherine  speak  so  strangely  before 
upon  the  subject  of  marriage ;  and  I  made  up  my  mind  that 
she  was  either  a  little  crazy,  or  very  unhappy  about  some- ' 
thing. 

The  day  was  at  length  fixed  upon  that  was  to  see  Roland 
and  myself  married.  It  was  to  take  place  the  last  of  Sep 
tember.  What  fine  long  rambles  did  we  now  have  together  ! 
Every  field,  pasture,  and  piece  of  woods,  was  explored  by  us. 
We  climbed  e\t;ry  hill  and  descended  every  valley  iri  old 
Linden  together.  I  can  never  forget  that  happy  summer. 
Every  day  and  hour  are  indelibly  fixed  upon  my  memory. 

The  hours  flew  swiftly  by.  Rosy  June  was  succeeded  by 
the  rich,  luxuriant  months  of  July  and  August ;  and  Septem 
ber,  with  its  calm  skies  and  gentle  breezes,  was  ushered  in 
by  a  fair  and  perfect  day.  Every  possible  preparation  had 
been  made  for  my  wedding.  My  mother  had  procured  the 
finest  dresses,  the  richest  jewels,  and  the  most  delicate  em 
broidery,  for  me ;  and  my  marriage  was  to  be  celebrated  by  a 
real  old-fashioned  wedding.  It  was  not  the  custom  of  the 
day ;  but  my  father  had  been  known  and  loved  by  so  many 
people  in  Linden,  and  was  still  so  fondly  remembered,  that 
it  was  judged  best  to  let  all  his  old  friends  see  his  child 
married. 

At  length  the  day  dawned  that  was^ere-its  close,  to  see 
me  a  wife.  The  sky  was  blue,  and  the  day  uncommonly 


BOSTON     COMMON.  279 

warm.  A  few  light,  fleecy  clouds  floated  gracefully  in  the 
far  south,  and  relieved  the  deep  blue  of  the  heavens.  Our 
door-bell  was  besieged  all  day  by  messages,  bouquets,  pres 
ents,  or  something  pleasant  for  the  bride.  The  evening 
drew  on  fair  and  softly.  The  house  was  early  filled  with  the 
merry  wedding  guests.  I  was  attired  in  my  rich  robes  of 
white  satin  and  blonde;  and,  at  the  hour  of  seven,  entered 
the  parlor  with  my  bridesmaids,  their  grooms,  and  my  future 
husband. 

The  room  was  large  and  lofty ;  but  it  was  filled  to  over 
flowing.  Some  had  to  stand  upon  the  sofa,  and«  others  were 
closely  packed  upon  the  stairs,  all  striving  to  get  a  glimpse 
of  the  bride.  For  some  singular  reason  of  her  own,  probably, 
Kate  Merton  had  refused  to  attend  my  wedding ;  and  had, 
the  day  before  I  was  married,  left  town  to  visit  a  distant 
relative.  I  was  exceedingly  surprised  at  this  strange  con 
duct,  and  somewhat  offended ;  but  I  afterwards  learned  the 
cause. 

My  bridesmaids  were  Jessie  Weston  and  Mary  Nevill, 
two  very  lovely  girls.  They  were  attired  in  flowing  robes  of 
white  muslin,  and  looked  exceedingly  lovely.  But  the  finest 
feature  of  the  evening  was  Hastings.  He  stood  by  my  side, 
dressed  in  elegant  black,  relieved  by  the  white  vest  and 
gloves,  in  all  the  glory  and  pride  of  manly  beauty.  His 
hair,  always  so  glossy,  hung  in  rich,  wavy  curls  over  the 
unclouded  brow ;  his  eyes  sparkled  and  flashed  with  the  emo 
tions  of  a  generous,  happy  heart,  at  peace  with  itself  and  all 
the  world.  A  sweet  expression  lingered  around  that  mouth, 
whose  smile  was  my4heaven,  and  an  animated  grace  was  dis 
played  in  every  limb  and  motion. 


280  BOSTON     COMMON. 

"What  a  beautiful,  noble  creature  is  Roland  Hastings, 
and  how  interesting  and  lovely  the  bride  looks !  "  were  excla 
mations  I  heard  everywhere  around  me.  I  saw  nothing, 
knew  nothing,  however,  but  Roland  and  happiness,  as  I  stood 
in  the  midst  of  that  brilliant  throng,  and  pronounced  the 
vows  that  were  to  bind  me  forever  to  the  glorious  being  at 
my  side. 

The  ceremony  was  over;  the  prayer  had  been  breathed, 
the  benediction  pronounced,  by  the  old,  time-honored  pastor. 
I  had  received  kisses  and  congratulations  from  many  an 
old  friend,  had  heard  myself  greeted  by  the  new  and  de 
lightful  title  of  "  Mrs.  Hastings,"  ere  I  had  realized  but 
that  I  was  in  a  dream.  It  was  a  dream  of  bliss,  however, 
from  which  I  never  hoped  or  wished  to  awaken. 

About  nine  o'clock  I  was  quite  startled  by  hearing  some 
one  observe  that  it  rained.  I  ran  immediately  to  a  window. 
A  large  black  cloud  had  arisen  directly  over  our  house,  and 
threatened  to  envelop  the  whole  heavens.  As  I  bent  my 
eyes  anxiously  from  the  window,  a  peal  of  thunder  boomed 
from  the  cloud,  and  rattled  the  panes  against  which  I  was 
leaning.  This  was  instantly  succeeded  by  an  almost  blinding 
flash  of  lightning,  which,  in  its  red  and  forked  passage,  marked 
for  a  moment  the  deep  blackness  of  the  heavens.  There  was 
an  awful  pause  among  the  elements  for  a  moment;  and  then 
the  big  drops  of  rain  came  dancing  down  to  earth  in  such 
abundance,  that  it  seemed  as  if  the  very  windows  of  heaven 
were  open,  and  pouring  forth  the  accumulated  substance  of 
years. 

I  stood  gazing  fearfully  upon  this  sight.  A  gloom  had 
come  over  me,  I  scarcely  knew  why,  and  I  suddenly  thought 


BOSTON     COMMON.  281 

of  Ernest  and  his  dark  words  of  prophecy.  An  arm  was  the 
next  moment  thrown  fondly  around  my  waist,  and  a  voice 
whispered  in  my  ear  the  words, 

"  Come  away,  my  Helen,  from  this  fearful  sight !  You 
will  catch  cold." 

"  0,  Roland ! "  I  replied ;  "  why  did  this  occur,  and  on 
our  wedding-night,  too?  I  fear  that  some  great  evil  will 
overtake  us ! " 

"  Pshaw,  Helen ! "  said  he ;  "  no  evil  that  this  arm  can 
prevent  shall  ever  cross  your  path." 

"  0,  Roland !  "  I  continued,  "  I  am  thinking  of  Ernest. 
These  clouds  seem  to  be  the  wretchedness  we  have  condemned 
him  to,  and  that  lightning  may  resemble  his  spirit. struggling 
through  the  darkness  around  him." 

"  Do  not  allow  your  mind,  my  sweet  one,"  replied  Roland, 
"  to  dwell  upon  any  theme  that  will  trouble  or  vex  you  in 
the  least,  or  our  wedding-night  will  indeed  prove  an  unfortu 
nate  one  to  me." 

He  half  drew,  half  persuaded  me  from  the  window,  and, 
leading  me  to  a  little  closet,  poured  out  a  glass  of  wine,  and 
offered  it  me  to  drink.  I  looked  at  it  a  moment,  and  then 
set  it  down. 

"  "  I  do  not  drink  wine,  Roland,"  said  I ;  "  and  I  hope  you 
do  not." 

He  laughed.  "  Can't  I  persuade  you  to  try  this  ? "  he 
said,  coaxingly.  "  Will  you  disobey  the  first  command  of 
your  liege  lord  and  husband  ?  " 

"  Nay,  Roland,"  I  replied,  "  I  will  obey  you  in  every 
thing  that  is  right,  but  not  in  this.  You  never  drink  wine,  do 
you?" 

24* 


282  BOSTON     COMMON. 

"  Only  on  great  occasions,  like  the  present,"  he  answered, 
taking  up  the  rejected  glass  and  draining  it  to  the  bottom. 
"  I  am  one  of  the  kind,  Helen,  that  can  drink  or  not,  just  as 
I  please." 

I  said  no  more  at  present,  as  I  saw  that  it  was  quite  use 
less.  He,  seeing  my  sadness,  strove  to  dissipate  it.  Of 
course  he  succeeded ;  for  there  was  a  charm  in  his  words  and 
accents  that  had  power  to  soothe  my  grief  whenever  he  chose 
to  speak. 

The  thunder  continued  to  peal  forth,  the  lightning  to  flash, 
and  the  rain  to  pour.  Everybody  seemed  troubled  .and  dis 
satisfied.  A  gloom  rested  upon  the  whilom  happy  wedding- 
party.  The  dancing  and  sports  were  broken  up,  and  the 
gentlemen  despatched  for  carriages,  umbrellas,  and  rubbers, 
for  the  ladies. 

At  length  the  shower  abated.  The  thunder  rolled  away, 
the  lightning  ceased  its  fearful  playing,  and  the  rain  soon 
stopped  altogether.  The  guests  then  bade  me  good-by  and 
departed  for  their  homes ;  and  thus  ended  my  happy  wedding- 
day. 

For  three  weeks  after  my  marriage  we  remained  at  my 
mother's,  who  could  not  bring  herself  to  part  with  me  so  soon, 
and  then  went  to  board  at  a  fashionable  hotel  in  town,  as  our 
house  was  not  yet  ready  to  receive  us. 

What  blissful  months  were  those,  and  how  swiftly  did  they 
speed  away !  I  was  now  perfectly  happy.  My  husband  was 
so  kind,  so  attentive !  He  scarcely  ever  left  me  for  even  an 
hour  at  a  time,  and  our  strong  attachment  for  each  other 
was  the  talk  of  the  whole  village.  I  had  a  constant  round 
of  company,  to  whom  I  was  always  proud  to  exhibit  my 


BOSTON     COMMON.  283 

beautiful  husband.  All  were  delighted  with  him.  He  was 
the  principal  object  of  attraction  at  all  the  parties  around ; 
and  I  was  on] y  too  happy,  too  willing  to  find  myself  a  second 
ary  object,  for  it  was  always  my  greatest  delight  to  listen  to 
his  praises. 

"  Helen,"  said  my  husband  to  me,  one  day,  "  during  our 
early  acquaintance  I  often  saw  you  dance ;  how  is  it  that  you 
never  do  so  now  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  replied,  "  you  did.  When  I  was  very  young, 
my  mother  sent  me  to  a  dancing-school,  where  I  learned  and 
practised  the  steps.  But  why  do  you  ask  ?  " 

"  Because,  my  dear,"  he  answered,  "  there  is  to  be  a  series 
of  balls  here  this  winter,  which  I  am  very  anxious  to  attend. 
Of  course  I  cannot  go  without  you.  What,  say  you?  " 

"  It  will  hardly  comport  with  my  profession,  Roland,"  I 
replied.  "  I  am,  ypu  know,  a  church-member." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  am  aware  of  it,"  he  answered ;  "  but  there 
can  be  no  possible  harm  in  dancing  a  little, — it  is  nothing 
but  an  innocent  amusement." 

"  I  acknowledge  that,  Roland.  Dancing  is,  in  itself,  quite 
a  harmless  pastime  ;  but  it  leads  to  many  and  serious  evils, 
which  I,  as  a  Christian,  am  in  duty  bound  to  avoid." 

"  But,  my  sweet  Helen,  pray  what  are  the  evite  to  which 
you  allude?  If  you  will  convince  me  of  them,  I  will  never 
step  foot  into  a  ball-room  again." 

"  Why,  Roland,  in  the  first  place,  it  is  a  waste  of  time, 
money,  and  health ;  I  might  say  a  shameful  waste.  The 
hours  spent  in  dancing  should  be  devoted  to  sleep  ;  the  money, 
if  not  needed  —  as  is  often  the  case  —  for  the  necessary 
wants  of  life,  to  some  charitable  purpose.  Then,  again, 


284  BOSTON     COMMON. 

dancing  is  very  excitable.  Young  people,  particularly  gen 
tlemen,  are  often  induced  to  drink  thereby ;  play  follows  the 
intoxicating  bowl,  and  profanity  ensues.  Then,  Roland  — 
you  know  the  rest ;  the  picture  is  too  fearful  to  be  pursued." 

"  Your  picture  is  highly  colored,  Helen,"  he  laughingly  re 
plied.  "  And  so  you  would  discard  dancing  entirely,  if  you 
were  ruler  of  the  land  ?  " 

"  No,  Roland,"  I  answered,  "  I  would  do  nothing  of  the 
kind.  Were  I  ruler  of  the  land,  and  absolute  ruler,  as  I 
wish  I  might  be  for  a  while,  I  will  tell  you  what  I  would 
do.  I  would  lay  down  certain  rules,  which  should  be  strictly 
obeyed." 

"  Well,  my  little  Lycurgus,  let 's  hear  your  wonderful 
laws." 

"  Very  well,  Roland,"  I  continued,  "  you  shall  hear  them 
all.  In  the  first  place,  I  should  require  every  man,  woman, 
and  child,  under  pain  of  imprisonment,  unless  sickness  pre 
vented,  to  be  at  home,  and  in  bed,  by  ten  o'clock.  Once  a 
week  there  should  be  a  ball  all  over  the  land ;  but  it  should 
commence  in  the  afternoon,  and  end  at  precisely  nine  o'clock. 
I  would  have  the  young  and  old,  the  rich  and  poor,  the  bond 
and  free,  attend  these  balls,  and  all  who  were  able  dance  and 
enjoy  themselves  equally.  A  concert  should,  of  course,  take 
place  in  the  evening,  as  it  would  very  probably  be  done  early. 
In  order  that  these  merry-makings  might  be  as  innocent  as 
possible,  I  would  order  every  pack  of  cards,  every  dice-box 
and  gammon-board,  to  be  collected  in  heaps"  all  over  the 
land  and  burned,  and  in  this  manner  would  I  destroy  gam- 
Wing. 

"  Then  for  King  Alcohol.     I  would  summon  him  from  his 


BOSTON     COMMON.  285 

lurking-places,  —  from  his  haunts  of  iniquity,  from  his  dens 
of  misery,  —  and  burn  him  root  and  branch.  All  his  fine 
appendages,  his  gilded  palaces,  his  sparkling  treasures,  should 
suffer  the  same  fate.  Then,  to  make  assurance  doubly  sure, 
I  would  go  to  the  very  foundation  of  the  matter.  I  would 
raze  every  distillery  in  the  land,  and  level  it  to  the  ground, 
and  menace  with  death  the  man  who  laid  the  first  stone 
towards  building  another.  Then,  when  this  was  done,  when 
every  means  of  vice  was  out  of  the  way,  I  would  let  all  my 
dear  people  sing  and  dance  to  their  hearts'  content." 

"  Well  done,  Nellie !  You  are  a  Lycurgus  indeed.  You 
have  laid  down  some  excellent  rules  to  live  by ;  but  there  is 
another  stronghold  of  evil  which  you  have  quite  forgotten. 
What  would  you  do  with  the  human  heart,  Helen  ?  That, 
surely,  should  be  hunted  out  and  cleansed.  Everybody  is  so 
bad,  so  wicked,  you  know." 

"  I  am  not  inclined  to  agree  with  you,  Roland,  in  this  par 
ticular.  I  think  there  is  much  less  evil  and  more  good  in 
the  world  than  we  are  apt  to  imagine  upon  a  hasty  survey  of 
the  matter.  We  look  abroad  and  see  crime,  envy,  malice,  and 
many  other  passions,  blasting  their  votaries ;  but  there  is,  in  my 
opinion,  no  person  living,  not  even  the  most  abandoned  crim 
inal,  who  has  not  some  germs  of  virtue  sparkling  in  his  breast. 
Some  tender  recollections  of  home,  or  a  mother's  prayers,  if 
touched  upon  properly,  might  be  productive,  perhaps,  of  the 
fruit  of  entire  reformation." 

Roland  smiled.  "  Well,  Nell,"  he  said,  "  I  won't  dispute 
you.  It  may,  perhaps,  be  as  you  say';  but  now  for  these 
balls.  We  will  subdue  our  inclinations  for  cards  and  dice ; 
will  destroy  our  appetites  for  intoxicating  liquors ;  will  watch 


286  BOSTON     COMMON. 

carefully  to  see  that  no  word  of  profanity  escapes  our  lips ; 
and,  fortified  by  all  these  guards,  will  go,  will  we  not  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  Roland,  we  may  talk  of  subduing  our  inclinations  ; 
but  the  happy  day  for  doing  this  effectually  has  not  yet  come. 
I  fear  temptation,  —  I  dread  it  both  for  you  and  myself.  I 
do  not  wish  to  tread  even  upon  the  borders  of  its  fields.  They 
are  often  scented  with  a  thousand  sweets,  which  might  lull  our 
senses  into  forgetful  ness  of  the  dark,  deep  waters  beyond; 
and,  before  we  are  aware  of  it,  our  feet  may  be  sunk,  beyond 
retrieve,  far  into  the  miry  clay,  and  we  may  have  lost  even 
the  power  or  inclination  to  return." 

Roland  said  no  more  at  that  time ;  but  I  saw  that,  with  all 
my  preaching,  as  he  called  it,  he  was  not  satisfied.  His 
whole  heart  was  set  upon  having  me  visit  the  balls ;  and, 
after  withstanding  his  persuasions  a  long  time,  I  at  length,  in 
an  evil  hour,  consented  to  attend  just  one  with  him. 

His  joy  at  my  acquiescence  quite  overcame  any  further 
scruples  I  might  have  had  ;  and  I  prepared  for  the  ball  with 
much  more  satisfaction  than  I  had  imagined  it  possible  to 
feel  upon  such  an  occasion.  Everybody  was,  of  course,  de 
lighted  to  see  Mrs.  Hastings  at  a  ball ;  and  every  attention 
which  friendship  or  politeness  could  suggest  was  heaped  upon 
her.  Her  hand  was  solicited  by  every  gentleman  in  the  room, 
and  her  head  almost  bewildered  by  the  many  praises  and 
favors  she  received. 

Roland  was,  as  usual,  the  centre  of  attraction,  the  observed 
of  all  observers.  He  had  scarcely  a  moment  to  speak  a  word 
to  me,  and,  on  my  part,  I  had  no  time  to  attend  to  him. 
He  was  constantly  surrounded  by  a  bevy  of  young  ladies,  who 
all  continued  to  flatter  him,  and  make  him  think  himself,  as 


BOSTON  COMMO'N.  287 

usual,  almost  a  divinity.  Once  or  twice,  while  whirling  in 
the  giddy  .mazes  of  the  waltz,  the  noble  face  of  my  cousin 
Ernest  rose  before  me,  looking  so  reproachful ;  once  or 
twice  his  words  of  warning  rang  in  my  ears ;  but  I  quickly 
banished  both  the  face  and  words,  and,  with  a  smile  of  tri 
umph,  yielded  to  the  new  delights  around  me. 

Roland  could  talk  of  nothing  but  the  ball  for  a  week  after 
wards.  It  did  not  give  me  so  much^)leasure,  however  ;  but 
I  humored  his  fancy,  and  strove  to  show  him  that  I  was  as 
much  delighted  as  himself. 


CHAPTER    XXVIII. 

"  There  are  sounds  of  mirth  in  the  night-air  ringing, 

And  lamps  from  every  casement  shown, 
While  voices  blithe  within  are  singing, 

That  seem  to  say  '  Come  '  in  every  tone. 
Ah  !  once  how  light,  in  life's  young  season, 

My  heart  had  leaped  at  that  sweet  lay, 
Nor  paused  to  ask  of  greybeard  Reason 
Should  I  the  siren  call  obey  ! " 

THOMAS  MOORE. 

"HELEN,  my  dear,  such  news  for  you!  such  an  honor  for 
us  both !  "  said  my  husband  to  me,  one  day,  coming  into  the 
room,  and  leaning  over  my  chair. 

"  What  is  it,  Roland  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Why,"  he  answered,  "  the  good  people  of  the  little  vil 
lage  where  I  was  born,  and  where  I  first  beheld  you,  my 
dear,  have  concluded  that,  on  New- Year's  eve,  your  nineteenth 
birthday,  they  will  give  us  a  grand  ball  and  supper.  I  have 
just  received  a  letter  from  the  manager  of  the  festival,  who 
says  that  he  has  sent  invitations  to  several  towns,  and  that 
many  ladies  and  gentlemen  are  to  attend.  A  fine  band  of 
music  is  also  provided  for  the  occasion.  You  will  dress  in 
your  bridal  attire,  Helen,  veil  and  all ;  and  we  will  have 
such  a  charming  time !  I  am  quite  delighted  with  this  plan." 

I  looked  at  him.     He  seemed  so  happy,  so  animated,  that 


BOSTON     COMMON.  289 

I  could  not,  of  course,  refuse  him.    It  was  entirely  out  of  my 
power ;  and  so,  with  a  sigh,  I  consented  to  go. 

Katherine  Merton  called  in  soon  after,  and  I  told  her  of 
my  anticipated  pleasure.  She  informed  me  that  her  lover 
had  just  arrived,  had  insisted  upon  her  going  with  him  to 
the  ball  also,  and  that  she  had  consented. 

"  0,  delightful !  "  said  I.  "  What  a  pleasant  time  we  will 
have  together  !  —  won't  we,  Kate  ?  " 

"Yes,  we  may  have,  to  be  sure,"  she  answered;  "but  I 
do  not  enjoy  such  times  very  much,  do  you,  Nellie  ?" 

"  Why,  no,  Kate,"  I  replied ;  "  but,  then,  Roland  is  so  fond 
of  them  that  I  have  not  the  heart  to  refuse  him.  I  shall  do 
so  by  and  by;  for  I  cannot  say  that  I  find  the  pleasure  in 
those  scenes  that  I  used  to." 

The  New- Year's  morning  —  my  birthday  —  dawned.  I 
kneeled  and  prayed,  and  read  my  Bible,  as  usual ;  but,  for  the 
first  time  in  a  long  while,  my  devotions  were  hurried  through, 
and  I  did  not  find  the  same  enjoyment  in  them  as  was  my 
wont.  I  arose  from  my  knees,  and  hastily  donned  my  travel 
ling-dress  ;  for  we  were  to  start  very  early. 

The  ride  was  delightful ;  my  companion,  as  usual,  kind, 
affectionate,  and  attentive.  When  we  arrived  at  Bardville, 
the  whole  village  was  in  commotion,  and  the  hotel  literally 
alive  with  people.  I  will  not  stop  to  describe  the  ball.  It 
was  all  that  beauty,  grace,  and  fine  music,  could  make  it.  I 
received  a  deal  of  attention ;  and,  dressed  once  more  in 
my  wedding-garments,  looked  and  acted  the  bride  to  perfec 
tion.  We  passed  the  latter  part  of  the  night  at  Roland's 
father's,  and  returned  home  the  next  day  very  much  delighted 
with  our  visit. 

25 


290  BOSTON     COMMON. 

I  was  quite  disappointed  in  what  I  had  imagined  Horace 
Wilds,  Kate  Merton's  lover,  to  be.  He  did  not,  as  she  had 
said,  appear  to  be  anybody  in  particular.  He  was  neither 
tall  or  short,  thick  or  thin,  black  or  white ;  and  I  could  not 
discover,  with  all  my  penetration,  whether  he  knew  anything 
or  not.  Sometimes  he  would  give  you  the  idea  that  he  was  a 
splendid  dancer.  He  would  commence  a  waltz  or  cotillon  in 
such  a  graceful  style  that  you  would  involuntarily  exclaim, 
"  What  a  magnificent  dancer ! "  Before  he  had  finished, 
however,  he  would  lose  the  step,  and,  making  some  awkward 
blunder,  reel  to  a  seat  with  his  partner,  and  declare  that  he 
would  never  dance  again,  it  was  such  a  bore.  To  give  the  reader 
some  idea  of  this  singular  being,  I  will  relate  a  little  conver 
sation  that  took  place  between  him  and  myself  at  the  ball. 
In  the  course  of  the  evening,  he  came,  forward  and  said,  with 
a  bow, 

"  Mrs.  Hastings,  I  believe  ?  " 

I  acknowledged  that  I  was  indeed  that  person,  and  made 
room  for  him  by  my  side. 

"  I  should  be  most  happy,  madam,  to  have  your  hand  for 
a  dance,"  he  said. 

"  And  I  should  be  equally  happy  in  conferring  it,"  I  re 
plied. 

"  Don't  you  think  it  very  warm  here,  madam  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Very,"  I  answesed.     "  Do  you  enjoy  dancing,  sir?  " 

"  Yes  —  no  —  that  is,  I  am  quite  fond  of  it  at  times." 

"  There  appears  to  have  been  every  provision  made  for  our 
comfort  to-night  by  the  kind  manager.  The  ladies  are  beau 
tiful,  and  the  music  excellent." 

"  There  are  quite  a  number  of  handsome  ladies  present ; 


BOSTON     COMMON.  291 

but  I  do  not  much  fancy  a  beauty ;  and  as  for  music,  I  have 
no  ear  at  all  for  that." 

"  Our  dear  Katherine  is  very  beautiful,"  I  archly  re 
marked. 

"  Yes,  I  believe  Kate  is  fine-looking,  but  not  a  beauty, 
after  all." 

"  You  like  her  face  surely,  Mr.  Wilds  ?  " 

"  Yes  —  no,  —  that  is,  I  mean  I  am  not  quite  sure  that  I 
ever  had  an  opinion  upon  Kate  or  her  face  either.  Indeed, 
Mrs.  Hastings,  I  am  in  a  dream  more  than  half  my  time.  I 
do  not  pretend  to  know  anything  for  certain." 

I  looked  at  him  in  astonishment,  and  wondered  what  made 
my  Katie  ever  think  of  choosing  such  a  boor  for  a  husband. 
I  was  not  at  all  surprised  that  he  did  not  come  for  me* to 
dance  ;  for  he  never  seemed  to  make  up  his  mind  to  do  any 
thing  for  certain.  I  was  much  alarmed,  however,  for  fear 
that  he  would  forget  or  neglect  to  carry  Kate  home,  the  next 
day ;  but  my  fears  were  laid  at  rest  on  seeing  him  seated 
with  her  in  the  sleigh,  the  next  morning,  at  the  hotel  door,  as 
we  drove  by. 

"  Good-morning,  Wilds,"  said  Roland. 

"  Ah  !  Hastings,  good-morning  to  you.  You  are  off,  then, 
in  good  earnest  ?  " 

"  So  are  you,  I  see;  but  do  not  forget  the  way,  will  you, 
Wilds  ?  " 

"  0,  no !  I  am  pretty  sure  that  I  shall  get  home,  now  that 
I  have  started ;  but  I  had  a  difficult  time  to  find  my  horse,  I 
assure  you." 

"  Indeed !     What  was  the  trouble  ?     Had  he  got  loose  ?  " 

"  0,  no !  but  I  forgot  the  color  of  him,  and  was  some  time 


292  BOSTON     COMMON. 

deciding  whether  he  was  black,  white,  or  gray.  Katie,  here, 
put  me  all  right,  however,  by  informing  me  of  the  exact 
color  and  make  of  him  ;  and  here  I  am  at  last,  quite  ready, 
as  you  see." 

"  What  a  strange  man !  "  thought  I.  "  I  only  trust  he 
may  get  home  safely,  for  Katie's  sake.  I  should  not  much 
wonder,  however,  if  he  forgot,  and  harnessed  himself  into  the 
sleigh,  and  put  the  horse  in  with  Kate." 

After  the  fatigue  of  the  ball  was  over,  Roland  proposed  that 
we  should  take  a  trip  to  Boston,  and  spend  a  couple  of  months 
in  our  favorite  city.  I,  of  course,  gladly  assented ;  and,  well 
provided  with  furs  and  wrappings,  we  started.  Arrived  in 
the  city,  we  immediately  took  lodgings  in  the  hotel  where  I 
ha<?  formerly  boarded.  How  familiar  did  everything  look 
around  me  !  The  rooms  were  the  same.  The  servants,  fur 
niture,  and  all,  wore  a  dear  old  look. 

The  day  after  our  arrival,  we  visited  the  beautiful  Com 
mon.  The  plats  were  covered  with  deep  snow,  and  the  walks 
were  trodden  hard,  and  the  little  pond  was  solid  with  ice. 
Boys  and  girls  were  skating  and  sliding  here  in  every  direc- 
tiop,  and  the  whole  air  rang  with  their  merry  shouts  of  laugh-* 
ter.  How  I  love  children  !  There  is  beauty  to  me,  and  mu 
sic  of  the  sweetest  kind,  in  their  graceful  movements,  and 
glad,  ringing  merriment. 

We  bent  our  steps  to  Harry's  grave.  It  was  buried  deep 
beneath  the  snow,  and  I  could  discern  nothing  of  it,  save  a 
few  straggling  branches  of  the  white  rose-bush  I  had  planted 
when  last  there.  I  looked  sadly  towards  the  spot  where  the 
beloved  form-  lay,  and  sighed. 

"  O  Harry !  "  I  sakl  to  myself,  "  I  am  very  happy,  and 


BOSTON     COMMON.  293 

have  scarcely  felt  a  moment's  pain  since  last  I  visited  thy 
sacred  resting-place." 

On  the  second  morning  of  our  arrival  Roland  asked  me  if 
I  would  like  to  go  to  the  Museum.  My  heart  beat  quickly, 
but  I  replied,  "  I  think  not,  Roland." 

"  That  means  '  I  think  I  will,  Roland,'  does  it  not  ?  "  he 
playfully  asked.  "  You  know,  Helen,"  he  continued,  "  that 
the  Museum  is  not  exactly  a  theatre.  Everybody  goes  there. 
I  have  seen  ministers  there,  many  a  time." 

"  I  am  well  aware  of  that,  Roland,"  I  answered.  "  It  is 
no  harm,  perhaps,  in  itself,  to  attend  the  Museum  and  witness 
exhibitions  of  histrionic  art  from  talented  performers ;  but  I 
much  fear  it  will  take  my  mind  from  things  of  more  import 
ance,  and  it  may  lead  you  astray  too,  dear  Roland." 

"  Poh,  Helen  !  "  he  replied ;  "  there  is  no  danger  of  me, 
and  you  are  almost  a  saint  now.  You  need  to  have  your  gar 
ments  touched  with  a  little  earthliness,  or  you  will  grow  too 
pure.  There  is  to  be  a  brilliant  fairy  spectacle  to-night,  which 
cannot  fail  to  charm  your  scruples  entirely  away.  You  must 
go,  darling." 

Of  course,  yielding  to  my  blind  love  for  my  husband,  I 
went,  and  of  course  I  was  highly  delighted.  The  ice  once 
broken,  we  visited  the  theatre  many  times,  and  I  beheld  what 
I  had  so  long  wished  for,  the  splendid  tragedies  of  the  immor 
tal  Shakspeare.  I  saw  Forrest,  Booth,  Brooke,  Mrs.  Barrett, 
Mrs.  Mowatt,  and  a  half-dozen  others,  and  each  time  with 
renewed  pleasure.  Not  an  evening  elapsed  but  we  attended 
some  ball,  theatre,  or  concert.  My  husband  was  always 
happy,  always  gay ;  and,  loving  him  as  I  did,  could  I  bear 
to  mar  his  enjoyment  by  refusing  to  be  as  gay  and  happy  as 
25* 


294  BOSTON     COMMON. 

\ 

himself?  I  attended  the  dear  old  Episcopal  church,  on  Tre- 
mont-street,  of  which  I  was  a  member  ;  but  was,  to  my  shame 
be  it  spoken,  always  absent  on  sacrament  days.  I  could  not 
partake  of  the  Lord's  Supper,  for  I  felt  unworthy  to  do  so ; 
and  so  I  remained  at  home  with  Roland,  and  in  listening  to 
his  conversation  passed  the  hours  of  that  season  which  were 
wont  to  be  my  highest  enjoyment. 

After  spending  two  months  in  an  unvaried  round  of  gayety, 
after  attending  every  place  of  amusement,  and  seeing  and 
hearing  everything  of  any  worth  in  the  city,  we  started  once 
more  for  our  village  home.  This  time  I  did  not  visit  Harry's 
grave  at  parting,  or  pause  to  pray  beside  it.  I  had  lost  the 
power  to  do  so,  and  the  little  mound  would  but  have  re 
proached  me  for  thus  wickedly  wasting  my  time  and  fortune, 
which  should  have  been  spent  in  the  service  of  the  Lord. 

As  we  drove  from  the  hotel  I  glanced  involuntarily  towards 
the  Common,  and  from  thence  to  the  cemetery.  The  words 
"•Helen,  I  am  waiting  for  you,"  came  into  my  mind  at  that 
moment,  and  I.  leaned  back  in  the  carriage  and  sighed.  Once 
during  the  ride,  I  thought  thus  :  "  Had  I  married  only  in  the 
Lord,  as  commanded  by  Divine  Writ,  I  should  not  now  have 
had  cause  to  deplore  my  wanderings."  A  glance  at  Roland's 
beloved  face  dispelled  my  sad  thoughts,  however,  and  I  men 
tally  exclaimed,  "  I  am  now  bound  to  thee,  and,  come  weal  or 
come  woe,  I  will  strive,  in  obedience  to  my  marriage  vow,  to 
render  thy  whole  life  a  happy,  blissful  one  !  " 

Besides,  I  was  always  setting  a  time  when  I  would  leave 
off  attending  balls  and  theatres,  when  I  would  resume  my 
long-neglected  hour  of  devotion,  and  endeavor  to  draw  the 
dear  partner  of  my  bosom  with  me  into  the  paths  of  virtue 


BOSTON      COMMON.  295 

and  duty.  I  did  not  reflect  that  by  delay  I  was  sinking  still 
deeper  with  him  into  the  mire  of  which  I  had  myself  spoken, 
and  rendering  it  still  more  difficult  to  extricate  myself 
therefrom. 

We  arrived  once  more  at  our  pleasant  home,  and  resumed 
our  lodgings  at  the  Linden  House.  We  had  much  to  relate 
of  our  visit,  and  of  course  everybody  was  delighted  to  hear 
all  about  it,  and  to  welcome  us  back  again.  I  resumed  my 
hours  of  practising  and  reading  with  Roland  ;  but  the  devo 
tions  and  Ernest's  Bible  were  neglected  from  time  to  time, 
and,  after  a  while,  altogether  dropped.  I  had  gone  far  out 
of  the  way,  and  the  grieved  Spirit  had  left  me  blindly  groping 
for  light.  This  could  not  last  long,  however,  for  I  was  yet  to 
learn  that  the  way  of  transgressors  is  hard. 


CHAPTER    XXIX. 

"  These  are  the  matchless  joys  of  virtuous  love, 

And  thus  their  moments  fly." 
"  All  hope  of  succor  but  from  thee  is  past."  —  DRYDES. 

AT  length  our  beautiful  new  house  was  ready  for  our 
reception.  It  stood  upon  a  site  of  my  own  estate,  and  com 
manded  a  fine  view  of  the  whole  village.  Behind  it  frowned 
old  "  Granite  Bluff,"  and  the  dark  woods  beyond,  that  had, 
by  their  gloomy  appearance,  so  haunted  my  youthful  fancy. 
Around  us  were  the  dwellings  belonging  to  the  estate,  and 
inhabited  by  respectable  tenants,  who  all  rejoiced  on  the  day 
we  entered  our  new  house,  and  promised  to  be  very  good 
neighbors. 

Our  house  was  fitted  up  and  furnished  with  everything  com 
fortable  and  necessary.  I  had  no  useless  article  in  my  way  ; 
but  light,  elegant  furniture,  with  my  fine-toned  piano  in  the 
sitting-room,  and  rich  mahogany  and  brocade  in  the  parlor. 
My  chambers  were  tastefully  fitted  up,  with  beds  and  toilets 
in  pure  white,  and  carpets  of  light  green.  And,  then,  there 
was  such  a  dear  little  nursery  adjoining  the  sitting-room 
where  Roland  and  myself  were  to  sleep,  with  everything  com 
fortable  and  pleasant  in  it. 


BOSTON      COMMON.  297 

A  strong,  honest-looking  girl  greeted  us  with  a  smile  and  a 
good  supper,  the  night  that  we  arrived  at  home.  As  we  sat 
down  to  that  first  meal,  our  hearts  overflowed  with  thankful 
ness  and  love,  and  that  first  night  spent  in  our  new  home  was 
always  remembered  with  emotions  of  pleasure. 

Our  house  was  close  by  the  old  homestead  where  I  was 
born  and  reared,  and  where  my  mother  still  resided  with  her 
family.  This  was  exceedingly  pleasant  for  me,  and  when  I 
was  quietly  settled  I  had  scarcely  a  wish  ungratified. 

How  vividly  are  the  hours  of  that  too  happy  summer 
engraven  upon  my  memory  !  How  does  it  rise  before  me  now 
in  imagination,  invested  with  all  the  glory  and  happiness  of 
the  bygone  time,  and,  standing  out  fresh  and  green  from  every 
other  period  of  my  life,  claim,  in  its  pureness,  an  amnity  to 
heaven ! 

Roland  was  always  at  my  side.  He  was  never  absent  for 
a  single  evening.  We  would  sit  in  those  calm  summer  twi 
lights,  and,  with  hands  locked  together,  talk  long  and  earnestly 
of  our  love  for  each  other  and  future  prospects,  and  congrat 
ulate  ourselves  upon  enjoying  as  much  bliss  as  usually  falls  to 
the  lot  of  mortals  in  this  world. 

To  add,  if  possible,  to  our  happiness,  the  pleasing  hope  had 
been  granted  us  that  a  babe  would  soon  be  born  to  our 
household.  Then,  indeed,  did  I  weep  and  pray  that  my  life 
might  be  spared  to  train  up  my  child  aright.  I  promised  it 
to  God,  long  ere  its  birth,  and  requested  him  to  do  as  he 
pleased  with  it,  only  to  make  it  an  heir  of  heaven. 

The  child  for  whom  I  had  so  ardently  prayed,  that  I  had 
consecrated  to  the  Lord,  that  I  had  longed  so  earnestly  to 
behold,  was  at  length  granted  to  me.  It  was  born  upon  one 


298  BOSTON     COMMON. 

fine,  bright  October  day ;  but  what  was  my  anguish,  when, 
after  the  most  dreadful  sufferings,  after  lingering  between  life 
and  death  for  hours,  I  at  length  gazed  upon  the  form  of  jny 
infant,  and  saw  that  its  eyes  were  forever  closed  in  death  ! 
I  wept  and  mourned  bitterly,  for  the  disappointment  seemed 
greater  than  I  could  bear.  It  was  the  first  trial  of  my  happy 
married  life;  and,  forgetful  that  I  had  promised  it  to  my 
Maker,  my  heart  rose  in  rebellion  against  him  that  he  had 
taken  it  to  himself. 

I  grieved  that  I  had  not  been  permitted  to  gaze  into  its 
eyes  for  one  moment ;  that  I  had  been  denied  even  the  sweet 
pleasure  of  a  mother's  caress ;  but,  most  of  all,  I  grieved  for 
the  disappointment  of  my  husband.  He  had  anticipated  so 
much  pleasure,  had  waited  so  anxiously  for  the  time  when  a 
child  should  be  granted  to  us,  that  when  I  thought  of  him  I 
was  sad  indeed.  My  grief,  however,  in  this  respect,  was  laid 
at  rest  the  evening  that  our  babe  was  buried.  "  0  Roland," 
said  I  to  him,  as  he  was  leaning  tenderly  over  my  couch, 
"  how  grieved  I  am  for  your  disappointment !  What  shall  I 
say  to  alleviate  it  ?  " 

"  My  dearest  Helen,"  he  replied,  "  I  have  scarcely  cast  a 
thought  upon  the  child.  I  was  so  very  thankful  that  you 
lived,  that  I  almost  blessed  God  for  taking  our  babe, —  the 
blow  was  merciful,  and  I  am  happy  once  more." 

"  But,  then,  Roland,  our  child  would  have  been  such  a 
source  of  delight,  such  a  pleasure  to  us !  "  and  I  wept  afresh. 

"  Helen,"  said  Roland,  with  more  seriousness  than  I  had 
ever  heard  him  use  before,  "  you  told  me  that,  long  ere  this 
child's  birth,  you  had  given  him  to  the  Lord,  and  that  he  was 
His  entirely.  Then  of  what  do  you  complain  ?  He  belonged 


BOSTON     COMMON.  299 

to  God,  and  he  took  him,  ere  sin  and  sorrow  had  had  an  op 
portunity  to  mar  the  purity  of  our  boy.  He  is  better  at 
rest," 

"  True,"  thought  I,  "  I  did  promise  him  to  God,  and  He 
aas  taken  him  when  it  pleased  Him.  I  will  weep  no  more, 
9ut  submit  cheerfully  to  His  will." 

It  was  many  long  months  ere  I  recovered  from  my  illness ; 
but  Roland  was  so  kind,  so  attentive,  during  that  winter, 
that  I  only  half  felt  my  deprivation  of  health.  Some 
time  in  the  middle  of  February,  I  received  the  following 
letter,  written  to  me  in  a  well-known  hand.  I  opened  it,  and 
read : 

"  Linden  House,  Saturday  morn. 
"  MY  DEAREST  MRS.  HASTINGS  : 

"  You  will,  no  doubt,  be  astonished  and  grieved  to  learn 
that  your  early  friend,  Letise  Milford,  has,  after  undergoing 
every  trouble  and  sorrow  which  she  could  possibly  bear, 
arrived  at  the  Linden  House,  and  is  waiting,  with  the  greatest 
anxiety,  to  learn  from  you  that  you  are  the  same  dear,  dar 
ling  Helen  as  of  old.  Let  me,  by  a  few  brief  words,  recapitu 
late  my  sufferings. 

"  During  our  trip  across  the  Alleghanies,  the  summer 
before  last,  we  stopped  at  a^little  town,  where  a  garrison  was 
quartered.  Here,  among  many  others,  we  encountered  a 
most  delightful  young  officer.  He  was  very  bfeautiful  in  form 
and  features,  but  had  the  disadvantage  of  beinor  exceedingly 

o  J 

poor  in  purse.  I  liked,  nay,  loved  him  ;  and,  as  he  reciprocated 
my  affection,  and  pledged  his  love  to  me,  I  referred  him  at 
once  to  my  aunt.  She  repulsed  him  severely,  however,  called 
him  « beggar,  upstart,'  &c.,  and  ended  by  driving  my  darling 


300  BOSTON     COMMON. 

Thaddeus  from  the  house.  She  then  sent  for  me,  and  ad 
dressed  me  thus : 

" '  Well,  miss,  a  pretty  fool  you  have  made  of  yourself, 
this  time,  by  sending  a  rascally  young  officer  to  me  with 
such  a  message,  have  n't  you  ?  Was  it  for  this  that  I  took 
you  when  an  infant,  conferred  the  honor  of  my  name  upon 
you,  adopted  you  as  my  own  child,  brought  you  up  and  edu 
cated  you  as  a  lady ;  in  short,  did  everything  for  you  that 
the  most  affectionate  parent  could  have  done,  —  was  it  for 
this,  I  say?  Is  this  the  manner  in  which  you  repay  me  for 
my  innumerable  favors,  by  falling  in  love,  as  you  foolishly 
term  it,  with  a  miserable  young  officer,  whose  whole  fortune 
consists  of  one  suit  of  clothes,  a  gun  and  knapsack,  and  who 
was  never  guilty  of  having  more  than  five  dollars  at  a  time 
in  his  life  ?  No,  no,  Miss  Letitia !  let  me  hear  no  more  of 
this.  I  have  determined  upon  quite  a  different  course  of 
things  for  you.  You  are  to  marry  one  of  the  richest  gentle 
men  in  Boston;  I  have  promised  you  to  him  immediately 
upon  our  return.  He  is  no  whipper-snapper  of  a  fellow,  too 
young  and  too  foolish  to  know  what  he  wants,  but  a  grave, 
steady  man,  twenty-five  years  your  senior,  and  as  rich  as 
Croesus !  If  you  dare  thwart  my  wishes  in  this  respect,  you 
may  starve,  beg,  die,  with  your  miserable  husband,  —  I  '11  not 
trouble  myself  with  you  any  further ! ' 

"  My  aunt  here  brought  her  long  speech  to  a  close,  with  a 
tremendous  bang  upon  the  table,  which  made  it  actually 
dance ;  but  I  was  too  much  shocked,  too  much  horrified,  to 
speak.  The  idea  of  marrying  a  man  twenty-five  years  my 
senior,  and  grave  and  steady  into  the  bargain,  merely  because 
he  was  rich,  was  death,  and  worse  than  death,  to  me.  I  flew 


BOSTON     COMMON.  301 

to  my  adored  Thaddeus,  who  was  still  writhing  under  the  im 
putation  of  beggar,  upstart,  &c.,  and  endeavored  to  console' 
him  by  every  endearing  epithet  which  I  could  think  of,  but 
all  to  no  purpose.  He  stamped,  raved,  swore,  &c.,  and  de 
clared  that  my  aunt  was  a  '  wild-cat,'  a  '  she- vampire,'  a 
'tigress,'  &c. ;  and  that  nothing  on  earth  could  pacify  him  in 
the  least,  but  an  immediate  marriage ! 

"How  I  admired  him  for  these  smart  speeches!  I  do  so 
love  to  see  a  man  excited  !  In  a  short  time  we  had  decided 
that  an  elopement  would  be  the  only  thing  to  restore  us  to 
any  degree  of  happiness. 

"  I  had  always  doted  upon  elopements,  and  had  long  since 
secretly  determined  that  whenever  I  was  married  it  should 
not  be  done  in  the  usual  very  conijgonplace  way,  but  that  I 
would  celebrate  it  by  a  rope-ladder,  break-neck  experiment, 
or  something  of  the  sort.  To  my  exceeding  delight,  here  was 
just  the  opportunity.  A  cross  old  aunt,  —  a  fine  young 
officer  for  a  lover,  —  a  moonlight  meeting,  —  carriage, — 
escape,  —  a  lonely  old  chapel, — priest  with  white  hair  and 
venerable  beard,  —  marriage  ceremony,  —  return  to  the  old 
aunt,  and  upon  bended  knees  begging  for  forgiveness,  —  per 
fect  reconciliation,  &c.  &c.  0,  it  was  too  delightful  to  be 
postponed  a  moment !  I  imparted  all  these  thoughts  to  my 
beloved  Thaddeus.  He  shook  his  head  about  the  reconcilia 
tion,  but  resolved  to  gratify  me  in  everything  else. 

"  Well,  the  night  came.  I  bade  my  aunt  a  tearful  adieu, 
of  which  she  took  not  the  slightest  notice,  and  ascended  to 
my  chamber  to  await  the  expected  signal.  It  was  to  be  a 
tap,  with  a  long  pole,  upon  my  window.  At  the  given  hour 
I  heard  the  signal,  and,  running  to  the  window,  beheld  my 
26 


302  BOSTON     COMMON. 

lover  upon  a  tall  ladder,  which  he  had  ascended.  H<  lised 
me  in  his  arms  without  a  word,  snatched  my  jewel-boy,  from 
the  table,  and  descended  noiselessly  to  the  ground.  I  neither 
shrieked  nor  wept,  but  remained  perfectly  quiet.  When  we 
had  gained  the  foot  of  the  ladder,  we  were  much  startled  by 
hearing  a  slight  noise  near  us. 

"  '  They  are  coming,  Thaddeus  ! '  said  I ;  'fly,  dearest, —  save 
your  life,  and  leave  me  to  perish  alone,' 

"  He  stopped  a  second,  drew  his  sword,  and  bravely  waited 
the  issue.  In  a  few  moments  a  couple  of  huge  black  cats 
rushed  past  us,  and,  with  a  light  laugh,  we  proceeded.  The 
carriage  was  waiting,  under  some  trees,  for  us ;  we  stepped 
into  it,  were  driven  away,  and,  in  a  couple  of  hours,  married ! 

"In  a  day  or  two  after  this  event,  we  returned  to  my 
aunt,  and,  forcing  our  way  to  her  presence,  begged  her  for 
giveness  in  the  most  melting  of  tones.  She  took  no  notice  of 
us,  however;  but,  rising,  rang  a  bell,  and,  upon  the  appear 
ance  of  a  servant,  ordered  him  to  show  us  to  the  door.  We 
left,  of  course,  but  where  were  now  our  high  hopes?  Gone, 
blasted,  withered,  like  an  untimely  flower  before  the  frost ! 

"  I  will  not  stop,  dearest  Helen,  to  recount  to  you  all  the 
sufferings  we  endured  from  that  period.  We  lived  upon  I 
know  not  what,  and  travelled  I  know  not  how.  My  darling 
Thaddeus  was  all  kindness,  all  affection,  towards  me  ;  but,  0  ! 
sad  and  heart-rending  to  relate,  he  'was,  in  one  short  year 
from  the  time  I  had  married  him,  brought  home  a  stiffened 
corpse ! 

"Alas !  Helen,  until  you  become  a  widow,  you  will  never 
know  a  widow's  suffering.  Thaddeus  was  accidentally  killed  in 
a  hunting  expedition,  and  left  me,  his  adored  wife,  and  our 


BOSTON     COMMON.  303 

two  months  old  child,  in  a  strange  land,  without  money, 
friends,  or  scarcely  the  means  of  burying  him  decently ! 

"  Well,  my  sweet  friend,  I  aroused  from  my  painful  situa 
tion  as  soon  as  possible,  and  begged  my  way  to  my  aunt. 
She  was,  however,  as  cold  and  implacable  as  ever.  Neither 
my  poverty  and  tears,  nor  my  child's  helplessness,  could  soften 
her  stony  old  heart.  She  dismissed  me  with  harsh  names 
and  words  from  her  presence,  and  I  was  once  more  thrown 
upon  my  own  resources. 

"  My  next  recourse  was  to  you,  Helen.  I  knew,  from  your 
former  friendship,  that  you  would  nol^  refuse  to  assist  me  ; 
and  so  I  sold  my  few  remaining  jewels,  and  started  for  Lin 
den.  I  arrived  here  last  evening,  half  siclj  and  fatigued  with 
my  journey,  but  relying  solely  upon  your  kindness  to  give  me 
a  shelter. 

"And  now  I  await  your  answer,  Helen.  Keep  me  not 
long  in  "suspense,  but  write  soon,  and  relieve  the  heart  of 
your  poor,  afflicted  LETISE  ROSCOE." 

How  my  heart  bled  for  poor  Letitia's  sufferings  !  She  was 
that  most  dreadful  of  all  things  to  me,  a  widow  ;  with  a  help 
less  infant  to  care  for,  without  money  or  friends,  save  myself. 
Although  Letitia  was  not  at  all  times  an  agreeable  companion, 
and  although  I  dreaded  to  have  our  quiet  home  invaded,  yet 
I  hesitated  not  a  moment,  but  sat  down  and  penned  the  fol 
lowing  note  to  her : 

"  DEAR  LETISE  : 

"  I  was  rendered  quite  unhappy  by  the  sad  account  of 
your  sufferings  this  morning.  I  truly  sympathize  with  you ; 


304  BOSTON     COMMON. 

but  come  at  once  to  me.  My  heart,  home,  husband,  and  all, 
are  waiting  to  receive  you.  I  long  to  welcome  your  poor, 
wandering  feet  to  my  own  happy  home.  So,  come  imme 
diately.  Yours,  as  ever,  H.  H." 

I  despatched  the  note,  and,  seeking  my  husband,  showed 
him  Letitia's  letter,  and  then  told  him  of  my  answer. 

"  You  have  done  right,  Helen,"  said  he,  "  and  I  quite  ap 
prove  of  your  plan  for  bringing  Letitia  here." 

I  then  tied  on  my  bonnet,  and,  stepping  into  my  carriage, 
myself  went  for  Letitia.  She  had  just  finished  reading  my 
note,  and  very  fervently  embraced  me.  Her  black  dress  and 
widow's  cap,  together  with  the  paleness  of  her  face,  touched 
my  heart  at  once ;  and  I  wept.  In  a  short  time  we  were  at 
my  own  door,  and  myself  carried  the  babe  into  the  house.  It 
was  a  sweet  little  thing,  about  four  months  old ;  and,  as  I 
pressed  it  to  my  heart,  I  resolved  that,  as  long  as  I  lived,  it 
should  never  want  a  mother.  I  immediately  installed  Letitia 
in  a  nice  little  chamber,  and  furnished  it  with  every  comfort 
and  convenience  that  both  mother  and  child  could  need. 

In  a  short  time  Letitia  was  entirely  restored.  The  roses 
of  health  came  back  to  her  cheek,  her  old  animation  returned 
in  a  measure,  and  both  my  new  guests  seemed  to  thrive  and 
improve  wonderfully  in  the  atmosphere  of  peace  and  plenty, 
which  now  surrounded  them. 

I  was  rejoiced  to  find  that  my  friend  had,  in  a  measure, 
lost  the  habit  of  using  extravagant  language.  She  still  pre 
served  a  little  of  the  old  manner ;  but  not  so  much  as  for 
merly.  I  found  her  quite  companionable,  and  would  now 
spend  hours  in  listening  to  the  sad  story  of  her  sorrows,  and 


BOSTON     COMMON.  305 

endeavoring,  by  every  kindness,  to  obliterate  them  from  her 
mind. 

One  day,  soon  after  her  entrance  into  our  house,  my  hus 
band  came  in,  looking  sadly  perplexed. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Koland  ?  "  said  I. 

He  looked  at  me  a  moment,  as  if  in  doubt,  and  then  said, 
"I  am  in  trouble,  dear  Helen,  from  which  you  alone  can 
extricate  me." 

"  I,  Koland  ?  "  I  answered.  "  You  have  but  to  say  how  I 
can  do  it,  and  you  know  that  I  should  only  be  too  happy  to 
afford  you  relief." 

"  Then,  Helen,  since  you  are  so  kind,  I  will  tell  you  about 
it.  I  am  in  immediate  want  of  a  large  amount  of  money, 
which  can  only  be  obtained  by  your  signing  this  paper." 

I  glanced  at  the  article.  It  was  a  mortgage  for  a  consid 
erable  sum  upon  nearly  one  tbird  of  my  property. 

"Is  that  all,  Roland?"  I  asked.  "Can  I  relieve  your 
distresses  by  so  trifling  an  act?  Then,  behold !  "  I  snatched 
a  pen,  and  wrote  "  Helen  Hastings  "  at  the  bottom  of  the 
deed  quickly,  and  handed  it  to  my  husband.  He  took  the 
paper,  thanked  me  kindly,  and  went  immediately  out. 

Of  course  I  was  very  happy  that  I  had  relieved  my  husband ; 
but,  somehow,  the  words  of  Ernest,  "  Waste  not  your  sub 
stance  in  the  idle  pomps  and  vanities  of  the  world,"  occurred 
again  and  again  to  my  memory.  I  banished  them,  by  a  strong 
effort,  from  my  mind;  and,  thinking  that  the  paper  I  had 
signed  was  only  a  mortgage,  and  could  be  redeemed  again, 
busied  myself  about  my  usual  employments. 

"  After  all,"  thought  I,  "  what  is  money,  in  comparison 
with  happiness  ?  I  have  taken  a  cloud  from  the  brow,  and  a 
26* 


306  BOSTON     COMMON. 

weight  from  the  heart,  of  the  being  dearest  to  me  upon  earth ; 
and  this  thought  is  enough,  independent  of  anything  else." 

When  Roland  came  in  to  tea  that  night,  he  looked  so  light- 
hearted  and  happy  that  I  reproached  myself  for  a  single 
regret ;  and,  resolving  henceforward  to  make  it  both  my  duty 
and  pleasure  to  ease  his  burdens,  if  he  had  any,  I  spent  the 
evening  as  usual. 

Since  Letitia's  arrival,  I  had  been  left  alone  two  or  three 
evenings.  The  first  one  I  remember  particularly.  It  was 
damp  and  rainy,  and  I  sat  wondering  what  made  Roland  so 
long  in  eating  his  supper.  Surprised,  at  length,  by  his  con 
tinued  absence,  I  arose  and  went  to  the  dining-room.  He 
was  not  there.  I  stepped  into  the  kitchen,  and  asked  the 
servant  where  was  Mr.  Hastings. 

"He  went  out,  marm,  after  supper,"  was  her  reply,  "  and 
gave  me  this  note  to  give  to  you  when  you  asked  for  him." 

"  Gone  out,"  said  I,  "  and  without  informing  me  of  it ! 
What  can  have  happened  ?  " 

I  opened  the  note,  and  read : 

"  Will  my  darling  wife  excuse  the  absence  of  her  husband 
from  her  side  this  evening?  Business  of  importance  calls  me 
away ;  but  I  leave  my  heart  with  you,  which  please  preserve, 
for  the  sake  of  R,  H." 

"  Well,"  thought  I,  "  this  is  very  strange,  but  right,  no 
doubt;  and  I  must  endeavor  to  make  the  best  of  it." 

I  returned  to  the  sitting-room,  and  attempted  to  practise. 
The  piano  sounded  harsh  and  discordant,  however,  and  I  soon 
wearied  of  the  sounds  I  drew  forth.  I  took  up  a  book,  and 
tried  to  read.  It  would  not  do ;  all  was  a  blank  without  Ro- 


BOSTON     COMMON.  307 

land,  and  so  I  impatiently  paced  the  room,  expecting  every 
moment  to  hear  the  well-known  sound  of  his  footsteps. 

He  did  not  return  until  ten  o'clock.  I  flew  to  meet  him, 
and  exclaimed,  '.'  0,  Roland,  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you  once 
more !  Time  has*seemed  intolerably  long  in  your  absence ! 
What  has  kept  you,  pray?" 

"Helen,"  said  he,  smiling  and  returning  my  caresses,  "I 
have  been  engaged  all  the  evening  in  business.  I  may  have 
occasion  to  be  often  absent,  my  dear,  of  an  evening ;  but  you 
have  your  friend  Mrs.  Roscoe  with  you  to  divert  your  atten 
tion  ;  so  you  need  not  feel  lonely." 

"  0,  Roland  !  "  said  I ;  "  what  is  my  friend,  any  friend, 
without  you  ?  Nothing,  worse  than  nothing,  to  me." 

"Well,  well,  Nellie,  I  know  all  that,"  he  replied;  "but 
please  to  remember  that  we  have  been -married  nearly  a  year 
and  a  half,  and  I  have  never,  unless  when  out  of  town,  left 
you,  for  a  single  evening,  until  the  present.  Perhaps  a  simi 
lar  case  never  before  occurred.  I  shall  now,  however,  be 
obliged  to  leave  you  on  account  of  business ;  and  you  will 
nb-t,  my  sweet  wife,  murmur  at  that,  will  you?  It  renders 
me  quite  unhappy." 

'.'I  will  not,  Roland,"  I  answered;  "but  will  endeavor  to 
bear  your  absences  with  as  good  a  grace  as  possible.  The 
time  is  very  long,  however,  without  you." 

We  retired  to  rest;  but  I  lay  awake  a  long  time,  wonder 
ing  what  could  be  the  business  that  was  to  cheat  me  of  my 
husband's  society  so  often.  "  I  suppose,  if  it  was  proper  for 
me  to  know,  he  would  tell  me,"  thought  I.  "  I  will  try  and 
be  patient."  And,  indeed,  I  had  occasion  to  be ;  for  Roland 
now  left  me  two  or  three  evenings  a  week;  and  when  he 


308  BOSTON     COMMON. 

remained  at  home  we  did  not  appear  to  enjoy  each  other's 
society  so  much  as  formerly.  We  had  either  forgotten  where 
we  had  left  off  reading,  and  had  to  go  back  again  and  begin 
anew ;  or  Roland,  soon  becoming  weary  of  reading  and  talk 
ing,  would  retire  early ;  and  by  these  means  I  soon  lost  alto 
gether  the  society  of  my  husband,  excepting  at  meal-times. 

Besides  this,  I  felt  there  was  a  barrier  between  us.  I  had 
often  questioned  him  concerning  his  business,  evenings ;  but 
he  always  contrived  to  elude  my  inquiries  by  some  playful 
remark  or  caress.  I  could  not  be  satisfied  with  this,  however. 
I  imagined  a  thousand  things  that  might  take  up  his  atten 
tion.  At  times  I  thought  he  was  contriving  some  beautiful 
affair,  with  which  to  surprise  and  delight  me ;  and  that  my 
present  unhappiness  would,  by  and  by,  result  in  the  most 
perfect  satisfaction.  Again,  I  would  imagine  that  he  was 
involved  in  some  unexpected  and  unthought-of  difficulty,  from 
which  he  was  striving  to  extricate  himself;  and,  if  so,  I  could 
appreciate  the  motives  of  his  wishing  to  keep  me  in  ignorance 
of  it.  Then  I  would  puzzle  myself  to  invent  something  which 
would  prove  quite  satisfactory,  with  regard  to  Roland's  ab 
sence  from  home.  I  could,  however,  hit  upon  nothing  that 
pleased  me,  or  that  I  thought  might  be  the  truth ;  and  so, 
calling  my  strength  of  mind  to  my  aid,  I  resolved  to  bear  it 
as  well  as  I  could,  without  murmuring  or  repining ;  hoping 
that  all  would  yet  come  out  as  I  wished. 


CHAPTER    XXX. 

"  When  thy  loved  sight  shall  bless  my  eyes  again, 
Then  will  I  own  I  ought  not  to  complain, 
Since  that  sweet  hour  is  worth  whole  years  of  pain." 

FOR  several  days  Roland  had  appeared  moody  and  ab 
stracted  ;  had  scarcely  tasted  food,  and  spoken  as  seldom  as 
possible.  One  night  he  came  home  quite  early  to  tea,  and 
complained  of  a  severe  head-ache. 

"  Dear  Roland,"  said  I,  "  please  remain  at  home  with 
me  to-night,  and  let  me  bathe  your  head  in  cool  water.  You 
will  feel  much  better  than  you  will  to  go  out ;  and,  indeed,  it 
cannot  be  necessary  that  you  should  be  from  home,  if  you 
are  ill." 

He  looked  at  me  a  moment,  and  said,  as  a  slight  expression 
of  pain  flitted  over  his  features,  "  I  must  not  go  out,  indeed, 
to-night,  Nell,  for  I  am  not  able." 

He  lay  down  upon  the  sofa,  while  I  went  into  the  kitchen ; 
and,  procuring  a  bowl  of  water  and  a  towel,  bathed  and 
combed  his  head  for  more  than  an  hour.  He  dropped  asleep 
at  the  end  of  that  time ;  and,  ceasing  my  ablutions,  I  seated 
myself  upon  a  low  stool,  and  took  one  of  his  hands  within  my 
own. 

How  long  and  earnestly  I  gazed  into  that  dear  face !  and, 


310  BOSTON     COMMON. 

as  I  did  so,  I  thought  that  I  perceived  a  slight  alteration  in 
his  features.  He  did  not  look  so  happy  as  he  was  wont  to 
do.  Care  of  some  kind,  I  knew  not  what,  had  laid  her  ruth 
less  hand  upon  his  fair  brow,  and  the  sweet  expression  of 
peace  had  faded.  I  leaned  over  him,  and  wept  that  it 
was  so 

"What  can  be  the  secret  grief  that  weighs  upon  my  hus-. 
band's  mind,"  thought  I,  "  and  is  extending  itself  even  to  his 
features  ?  and  why  may  not  I,  his  wife,  the  partner  of  his 
heart,  who  only  lives  but  for  him,  share  his  troubles? 
'T  would  be  far  more  conducive  to  my  peace  of  mind  to  know 
of  his  sorrows,  and  bear  them  with  him,  than  to  be  thus  kept 
in  ignorance." 

Wearied,  at  length,  by  my  own  oppressive  thoughts,  I  laid 
my  head  upon  Roland's  feet,  and  sunk  into  a  light  slumber. 
I  was  awakened,  some  time  in  the  night,  by  my  husband's 
heavy  breathing ;  and,  starting  suddenly  from  my  recumbent 
posture,  I  endeavored  to  arouse  him  also. 

"  Come,  Roland,  awake  and  retire,"  said  I.  "  The  fire  has 
expired,  and  you  will  catch  cold." 

He  opened  his  eyes,  turned  over,  and  groaned  heavily. 

"  Dear  Roland,"  said  I,  "  are  you  sick  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Helen,  I  am,"  he  replied.  "  I  feel  an  uncommon 
weight  upon  my  chest,  and  a  violent  throbbing  about  the 
temples." 

I  arose  in  alarm,  and  placed  my  hand  upon  his  brow.  JEt 
was  hot  as  fire,  and  his  pulse  was  beating  frightfully.  I  im 
mediately  summoned  the  servant,  who  soon  entered  the  parlor. 

"  Here,  Jenny,"  said  I,  "  help  me  to  get  Mr.  Hastings  into 
bed.  He  is  very  ill." 


BOSTON     COMMON.  311 

The  frightened  girl  complied  with  my  request,  and  we  soon 
had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  Roland  in  bed,  and  asleep  once 
more.  He  started  and  groaned  all  night,  and  as  soon  as  the 
morning  light  appeared  I  sent  for  our  family  physician.  He 
was  not  at  home,  but  arrived  about  nine  o'clock.  Roland 
was  by  this  time  in  a  high  fever ;  and  the  doctor,  after  hav 
ing  examined  his  pulse,  declared,  to  my  grief,  that  he  was 
taken  with  a  malignant  fever  that  was  then  prevailing  in  the 
neighborhood.  He  then  drew  me  aside,  and  mysteriously 
hinted  that  this  illness  was  brought  on  by  himself. 

"  How,  doctor?  "  I  inquired. 

"  0,  Mrs.  Hastings,  you  know,"  answered  he,  nodding  quite 
confidentially ;  "  you  understand." 

"  No,  indeed,  doctor,"  said  I ;  "I  neither  know  nor  under 
stand  anything  about  it.  Pray  tell  me  how  this  fever  has 
been  induced." 

"Is  not  your  husband  often  absent  from  home?"  he 
asked. 

"  He  is,  indeed,  sir,"  I  replied. 

"  Ah  !  I  thought  so,  madam,"  said  he.  "  Well,  when  he 
recovers,  you  must  try  and  keep  him  at  home  with  you  even 
ings,  and  he  will  soon  be  all  right  again." 

I  was  very  much  surprised  at  the  physician's  talk.  "  How 
does  he  know,"  thought  I,  "of  those  evening  visits?  and 
what  is  there  about  them  to  drive  my  beloved  husband  into  a 
fever?  I  must  discover  the  ^ cause,  or  I  shall' be  perfectly 
miserable." 

Roland's  fever  continued  to  increase  until  the  seventh  day, 
when  it  reached  its  height,  and  the  crisis  might  be  expected. 
O,  the  agony  of  those  few  days !  They  seemed  an  eternity  to 


312  BOSTON     COMMON. 

me.  I  never  took  off  my  dress,  but  sat  day  and  night  by  his 
pillow,  bathing  the  hot  head  and  hands,  wetting  the  parched 
lips,  or  fanning  the  fevered  brow,  of  the  dear  patient. 

What  anguish  to  stand  by  the  couch  of  Roland,  and  listen 
to  the  short,  quick  breathing,  and  then  to  mark  the  restless 
tossing  from  side  to  side !  But  how  much  greater  the  an 
guish,  to  gaze  into  the  glazed  eyes  with  so  much  affection,  so 
much  tenderness,  and  meet  no  answering  glance,  no  token  of 
recognition,  in  return ! 

The  dreadful  thought  that  I  was  about  to  become  that  sad 
dest,  most  cheerless  of  all  beings,  a  widow,  had  taken  com 
plete  possession  of  my  mind ;  and,  as  I  sat  alone  by  my  hus 
band's  couch,  I  reviewed  my  past  conduct  in  every  possible 
light.  I  asked  myself,  "  Had  I  been  faithful  to  my  great 
calling?  Had  I  given  up  all  to  Christ?  and,  not  ashamed 
of  him,  had  I  boldly  taken  up  my  cross,  and  followed  him 
daily?  Had  I  been  faithful  to  Harry's  advice?  Had  I 
remembered  his  parting  words  ?  Had  I  attended  to  my  hours 
of  devotion,  as  formerly?  Had  I  remembered  Ernest's  ex 
hortations  ?  and,  lastly,  had  I  been  faithful  to  the  beloved 
one  now  lying  prostrate  before  me  ?  " 

Alas !  I  had  done  none  of  these  things.  I  had  forgotten 
Harry,  and  his  deep,  fervent  piety  —  his  parting  injunction, 
and  triumphant  death.  I  had  neglected  my  hours  of  devo 
tion,  my  Bible,  and  my  God ;  had  scarcely  thought  of  Er 
nest,  but  had  banished  his  words  and  admonitions  from  my 
mind,  as  something  exceedingly  unpleasant ;  and,  0,  worse 
than  all,  I  had  been  unfaithful  to  my  husband's  eternal  inter 
ests;  had  suffered  him  that  I  would  have  died  to  save  to  go 
astray,  to  plunge  into  the  sins  and  pleasures  of  the  world, 


BOSTON     COMMON.  313 

without  a  single  effort  on  my  part  to  rescue  him  therefrom !  — 
had  scarcely  prayed  for  him ;  but,  in  my  blind  adoration  of 
his  matchless  form  and  features,  had  dwelt  in  ease  and  care 
lessness. 

And  now  he  was,  as  I  thought,  about  to  be  snatched  from 
me  !  He  was  going  down  to  the  dark  grave,  without  giving 
a  sign  that  he  was  prepared  to  meet  his  fate !  What  were 
my  feelings,  in  view  of  such  an  awful  calamity  !  I  was  sud 
denly  awakened  from  my  dream  of  pleasure ;  and,  0,  how 
little  did  the  pomps  and  vanities  of  life  now  appear  to  me, 
in  view  of  the .  grave  that  was  yawning  at  the  feet  of  my 
beloved  husband,  and  how  gladly  would  I  now  have  given  up 
all  the  treasures  of  the  world,  if  I  had  them,  or  all  my  hopes 
of  earthly  happiness,  to  have  purchased  back  for  him  the 
few  past  weeks,  that  I  might  exhort,  nay,  beseech  of  him  to 
turn  from  the  fleeting  pleasures  of  life  to  the  enduring  ones 
of  eternity ! 

In  the  secrecy  and  blackness  of  the  night  that  was  now 
gathering  over  me,  I  had  no  consolation,  no  ray  of  light,  but 
from  God.  To  him  I  prostrated  myself,  to  him  I  confessed 
and  deplored  my  wanderings,*  and  to  him  I  looked  for  relief. 
I  prayed,  and  my  prayer  was,  by  his  blessing,  devoid  of  self 
ishness.  I  prayed  for  the  life  of  Roland,  it  is  true,  but  I 
wished  it  to  be  spared  to  me  for  a  while,  that  I  might  urge 
him  to  repent.  I  implored  of  God  that  he  would  spare  him 
•for  a  season,  that  I  might  not  have  the  anguish  of  seeing 
him  whom  I  adored  go  down  to  the  dark  grave  with  his  sins 
unrepented  of  and  unforgiven ;  and  I  also  prayed  that  I 
might  be  the  blessed  instrument  in  my  Maker's  hand  of 
bringing  back  this  lost  sheep  to  the  fold.  I  pleaded  my  own 
27 


314  BOSTON    COMMON. 

| 

unworthiness,  my  own  backslidings,  but  still  craved  earnestly 
this  one  boon ;  and  God,  in  his  mercy,  lent  a  listening  ear  to 
that  heart-felt  petition,  and  granted  me  my  request. 

In  the  silent  watches  of  that  awful  night,  when  all  was 
black  as  the  grave  around  me,  He  bent  from  his  mighty 
throne,  and  breathed  peace  and  hope  once  more  into  my  soul, 
and  I  received  the  blessed  assurance  that  my  idol  would  live, 
—  live  to  bless  me  with  his  tongue,  —  live,  perhaps,  to  bless 
me  through"  the  never-ending  ages  of  eternity. 

The  morning's  dawn  broke  slowly  into  that  sick  room  ;  its 
gentle  light  chased  away  the  angel  of  death  that  had  been 
hovering  all  night  by  that  couch.  A  breath  of  the  Almighty, 
of  the  Powerful,  had  passed  over  that  drooping  brow,  and 
sickness  and  death  had  lost  their  power  to  harm. 

Roland  had  been  lying  for  hours  upon  his  side,  the  pulse 
heavy  and  uncertain,  now  beating  with  a  rapidity  that  de 
prived  one  of  the  power  of  counting,  and  then  nearly  ceasing 
altogether.  The  hands  had  been  quite  motionless,  the  breath 
ing  heavy  and  unnatural,  and  there  had  evidently  been  a 
mighty  struggle  between  life  and  death.  But  suddenly  there 
was  a  change.  The  hands  broke  into  a  gentle  perspiration ; 
the  breathing  grew  soft  as  an  infant's ;  the  pulse  became  more 
regular  in  its  beating ;  and,  with  a  long,  deep  sigh,  like  a 
person  who  had  been  toiling  up  a  steep  ascent,  he  turned,  and 
unclosed  his  eyes.  They  were  still  heavy,  it  is  true ;  but  the 
wildness  had  disappeared,  and  a  little  of  the  old  light  played* 
in  their  orbs.  His  brow  was  pale  and  wan,  the  lips  weak 
and  trembling;  but  health,  blessed  health,  had  once  more 
taken  up  her  abode  in  that  attenuated  form,  and  bid  fair  soon 
to  reign  triumphant. 


BOSTON    COMMON.  315 

Who,  of  all  that  sad  group  of  friends  and  relatives  gathered 
around  that  couch,  so  quick  to  notice  the  approach  of  re 
turning  health  as  I,  his  fond,  adoring  wife,  who  had  watched, 
for  days  and  nights,  in  an  agony  of  fear,  scarcely  daring  to 
draw  her  own  breath,  lest  she  might  forget  to  watch  for  his, 
—  who  had  struggled  in  earnestness  at  the  throne  of  mercy, 
and  had  almost  borne  him  by  her  prayers  aud  tears  from  the 
dark  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death?  He  spoke,  and  the 
words  I  shall  never  forget. 

"  Helen !  my  wife ! "  I  drew  near,  and,  by  a  powerful 
effort,  crushed  back  a  sudden  gush  of  tears.  "  What  will  you, 
dearest  Koland  ?  I  am  here,"  said  I. 

"  Helen,"  he  continued,  "  I  have  had  a  fearful  dream.  I 
imagined  you  were  dying  with  some  dreadful  disease.  Have 
you  been  ill  ?  " 

"No,  lloland,"  I  answered,  "but  you  have.  I  am  quite 
well,  and  you  are  getting  better  fast.  Do  not  talk  much, 
for  you  are  still  quite  weak."  I  could  say  no  more,  but 
hastily  left  the  room,  and  sought  for  retirement,  where  I 
could  kneel  and  render  my  thanks  to  whom  they  were  due. 

How  earnestly  did  I  pray,  how  fervently  thank  God,  for 
his  gracious  answer  to  my  petition  !  "  And  now,  0  Father," 
I  prayed,  in  conclusion,  "  let  me  never  forget  my  vows  to 
thee  this  night ;  permit  me  never  to  forget  the  creature  in  the 
Creator,  but  may  I  strive,  with  faithfulness,  to  bring  that  be 
loved  one  into  thy  fold  ;  and,  0,  let  me  never  have  the  agony 
of  seeing  him  whom  I  love  going  astray,  but  may  he  be 
brought,  although  even  at  the  eleventh  hour,  to  bend  low  at 
the  foot  of  the  cross,  and  to  say,  '  Father,  forgive  me,  and 
lead  me  to  the  Rock  that  is  higher  than  I.' " 


316  BOSTON.  COMMON. 

Through  all  the  long,  bright  June  days  did  I  Bit  by 
Roland's  couch,  and  watch  patiently  for  the  roses  to  bloom 
once  more  upon  that  pale  cheek  ;  and  I  was  rewarded  in  full 
for  my  care.  Roland  arose  in  a  few  weeks  perfectly  restored, 
and  as  well  and  strong  as  ever. 

Immediately  upon  his  recovery,  worn  down  with  watching 
and  anxiety,  I  myself  took  his  place.  I  strove  hard  to  ward 
off  the  approach  of  sickness ;  but  it  fastened  itself  upon  my 
frame,  and  *I  yielded  to  a  power  stronger  than  myself.  My 
illness  was  not  a  malignant  fever,  like  Roland's,  or  any  disease 
that  placed  me  in  immediate  danger,  but  a  sudden  sinking  of 
the  powers,  a  prostration  of  the  energies,  and  a  general 
weariness  of  the  whole  system. 

My  friend  Katherine  Merton,  who  had  been  absent  several 
months,  now  returned,  and,  upon  hearing  of  my  sickness, 
came  immediately  to  my  house,  and,  taking  up  her  abode 
there,  watched  tenderly  over  my  couch.  Through  her  exer 
tions  and  excellent  nursing,  aided  by  the  untiring  affection  of 
my  husband,  I  was,  in  a  short  time,  restored  to  health. 

As  the  summer  was  now  waning,  our  friends  proposed  that 
the  two  invalids  should  visit  Saratoga.  We  accordingly 
hastened  our  preparations,  and  were  soon  ready  to  start. 
Kate  was  to  go  with  us,  and  Letitia  to  take  charge  of  the 
house  during  our  absence. 

We  started  about  the  middle  of  August,  had  a  most  de 
lightful  journey,  a  pleasant  sail  up  the  Hudson  river,  and 
arrived  at  Saratoga  just  as  the  season  was  commencing.  The 
hotel  was  full.  Every  place  was  taken  ;  but  we  were  fortu 
nate  in  having  secured  rooms  before  we  left  Linden.  A  brisk 
walk  to  the  springs  on  a  fine  morning,  a  drink  from  their 


BOSTON     COMMON.  317 

cooling  depths,  a  ride  or  sail  every  day,  together  with  plenty 
of  cheerful  company,  and  peace  of  mind,  soon  completely 
renovated  us,  and  I  was  made  quite  happy  by  perceiving  that 
Roland  was  as  gay  and  light-hearted  as  of  old.  Care  had 
cleared  from  his  brow,  his  eyes  had  regained  their  former  lustre 
and  beauty,  and  his  form  was  as  buoyant  and  elastic  as  ever. 
I  was  once  more  delighted  in  beholding  my  husband  the  prin 
cipal  feature  of  our  circle ;  the  favored  guest,  who  charmed  all 
hearts  by  his  light,  graceful  manners,  and  enthralled  every 
listener  by  his  conversational  powers. 

Katie  and  myself,  of  course,  never  separated ;  we  were,  as 
of  old,  the  closest  friends.  I  often  wondered  if  she  had  any 
thing  to  vex  or  trouble  her.  Her  brow  was  always  unclouded ; 
her  face  breathed  perfect  repose  —  the  repose  of  conscious 
superiority  and  dignity ;  and  a  look  always  lingered  about 
her  mouth  which  seemed  to  say,  "  I  know  very  well  what  I 
am,  and  am  consequently  not  at  all  troubled  concerning  other 
people's  opinion  of  me." 

I  was  often  surprised  to  hear  her  speak  of  her  marriage 
with  Horace  Wilds  as  a  certain  thing,  and  still  more  surprised 
to  find  that  she  cared  so  very  little  about  him.  I  searched 
her  face  while  she  spoke  of  him,  to  see  if  I  could  not  dis 
cover  some  sign  of  discontent.  Not  a  trace  could  I  detect ; 
and  I  had  to  be  satisfied  to  remain  in  ignorance  concerning 
the  mystery. 

A  fortnight  of  our  visit  had  elapsed,  and  we  were  about 
thinking  of  returning  home,  when,  one  evening,  Roland  did 
not  appear  as  usual  in  my  chamber  after  tea.  I  sat  waiting 
impatiently  for  him ;  but,  as  he  came  not,  I  sent  for  Kate,  and 
informed  her  that  Roland  was  absent. 
27* 


318  BOSTON     COMMON. 

"  Well,"  said  she,  "  what  is  there  strange  about  that  ? 
He  has  met  some  friends,  probably,  and  they  have  detained 
him.  I  will  remain  with  you  until  he  returns." 

Hour  after  hour  glided  by,  and  still  the  truant  came  not. 
He  had  never,  during  all  those  fearful  evening  visits,  exceeded 
the  hour  of  ten ;  but  now  ten,  eleven,  twelve,  passed  without 
bringing  him.  I  sat  and  listened  as  long  as  I  could  to  the 
efforts  my  companion  made  to  beguile  me  of  my  uneasiness  ; 
but  at  last,  exclaiming  that  I  could  bear  this  suspense  no 
longer,  I  arose  and  rang  my  bell. 

A  sleepy  waiter  soon  appeared. 

"  Where  is  Mr.  Hastings?"  I  inquired. 

"  I  do  not  know,  madam,"  he  replied.  "  Is  he  not  in  his 
room  ?  " 

"  He  has  not  been  here  since  tea,"  I  replied.  "  Please 
make  immediate  inquiries  as  to  his  whereabouts." 

The  waiter  bowed  and  withdrew.  In  about  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  he  returned. 

"  I  have  made  inquiries,  madam,"  he  said,  "  at  the  office, 
and  have  learned  that  several  young  gentlemen  arrived  from 
the  east  to-day,  and  that  Mr.  Hastings  left  the  hotel  in  com 
pany  with  them,  soon  after  tea.  More  than  this,  madam,  I 
do  not  know.  He  will  doubtless  soon  return,  and  inform 
you  himself." 

A  terrible  foreboding  had  taken  possession  of  my  mind.  I 
fancied  Roland  was  drowned,  or  had  been  killed  in  some  way ; 
and  my  fear  was  evident,  for  the  waiter  added, 

"  You  need  not  be  alarmed,  Mrs.  Hastings,  for  your  hus 
band's  safety.  It  is  not  at  all  strange  for  gentlemen  like 
him  to  be  absent  from  their  rooms  even  all  night.  He  is  at 
a  supper,  no  doubt,  with  his  friends." 


BOSTON    COMMON.  319 

The  waiter  departed,  and  I  threw  myself  upon  a  sofa  to 
await,  as  best  I  could,  the  return  of  my  husband. 

I  tried  to  persuade  Kate  to  retire,  but  she  would  not  leave 
me,  and  we  waited  a  couple  of  long  hours,  listening  to  every 
sound,  hoping  it  might  be  Iloland. 

„  At  length,  when  I  was  wrought  up  to  the  highest  pitch  of 
excitement,  we  heard  a  distant  footstep  approaching.  Just 
then  the  clock  struck  two,  and  I  exclaimed,  "  He  is  coming, 
Kate !  " 

I  flew  to  the  door,  and  opened  it.  There  was  my  husband, 
true  enough ;  but  he  looked  so  strangely,  so  wildly,  at  me, 
that  I  half  forgot  my  joy  at  his  return,  and  tremblingly  asked 
him  if  he  was  ill. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  coming  into  the  room,  "  I  do  not  feel 
quite  well,  Nellie." 

Kate  glanced  at  me  for  a  moment,  and  I  noticed  a  singular 
expression  flit  over  her  features.  She  said  nothing,  how 
ever,  but,  rising,  nodded  a  good-night  to  me,  and  retired  to 
her  room. 

Iloland  immediately  threw  himself,  without  a  word  or 
caress,  upon  the  bed,  and  was  in  a  few  moments  buried  in  a 
profound  slumber. 

Again  did  I  bend  over  him  with  anxiety  ;  again  did  I  lis 
ten  to  his  breathing,  and  again  did  I  examine  his  pulse  to 
ascertain  whether  these  symptoms  were  like  the  former  ones. 
The  breathing  was  deep,  but  regular,  the  brow  cool,  and  the 
pulse  as  usual.  I  was  rejoiced  to  find  that  he  was  quite  free 
from  fever,  but  noticed  with  some  surprise  that  there  was  a 
flush  over  his  whole  face. 

Trusting  that  he  would  be  quite  recovered  after  some  hours' 


320  BOSTON     COMMON. 

quiet  repose,  I  laid  myself  by  his  side,  and  fell  into  an  uneasy 
slumber.  I  dreamed  that  my  husband  and  myself  were  wan 
dering  together  in  a  dark  valley.  The  heavens  were  black  and 
lowering,  and  from  a  cloud  of  ominous  appearance  broke  every 
now  and  then  a  deep  peal  of  thunder. 

At  length  our  way  was  so  impeded  by  trees  and  gnarled 
roots  that  we  could  scarcely  proceed ;  and,  in  the  darkness,  I 
missed  my  husband  from  my  side.  I  called  loudly  for  him  ; 
but  he  was  beyond  the  reach  of  my  voice,  which  only  returned 
me  a  fearful  echo. 

I  wandered  on  and  on,  through  tangled  wood  and  thicket, 
searching  wildly,  but  in  vain,  for  the  lost  one.  Suddenly  a 
faint  ligh't  shone  in  the  distance.  Following  eagerly  its 
cheering  rays,  I  came  presently  to  a  level  piece  of  ground  ; 
but  the  place  where  I  now  was  seemed  to  yawn  at  every  step 
with  deep,  muddy  sloughs  of  water.  In  one  of  these  pools 
I  beheld  my  lost  husband  struggling. 

I  immediately  ran  to  his  rescue,  for  I  heard  him  faintly 
call  "  Helen  !  Helen  !  "  I  reached  forth  my  arms  eagerly  to 
save  him,  but  he  was  far  down  in  the  mire,  and  with  anguish 
inexpressible  I  saw  his  expiring  eyes  turning  towards  me  with 
a  helpless  look  of  agony  in  them. 

I  seized  one  of  his  arms,  and,  with  unwonted  exertion,  — 
for  love  gave  me  supernatural  strength,  —  lifted  him  partly 
from  the  slough ;  but  I  could  do  no  more.  Suddenly, 
while  I  stood  there  in  suspense  and  agony,  I  beheld  the 
form  of  Ernest  Richmond  coming  towards  us.  I  trembled 
as  I  saw  him  neaving  the  pitfalls;  but  his  eyes  were 
steadily  fixed  upon  the  distant  light,  and  he  walked  on  with 
out  swerving  a  single  step,  and  came  safely  through  them 


BOSTON     COMMON.  321 

all,  until  he  reached  the  spot  where  my  husband  and  myself 
were. 

With  a  calm  smile,  and  with  the  strength  of  a  lion,  he  lifted 
us  both  from  the  slough,  placed  us  in  safety  upon  the  bank, 
and  then  left  us.  I  was  busily  engaged  in  washing  the  mire 
and  dirt  from  my  husband's  face,  when,  with  a  sudden  start, 
I  awoke.  Roland's  arm  was  lying  heavily  across  my  chest, 
and  I  felt  weak  and  faint. 

"  What  a  horrible  dream  !  "  thought  I.  "  I  wonder  what 
made  me  think  of  such  things !  " 

I  arose,  as  .it  was  now  morning,  dressed  myself  hastily,  and 
endeavored  to  arouse  Roland  also.  I  could  not  awaken  him, 
however,  and,  full  of  fear  lest  he  might  be  ill,  I  seated  my 
self  by  his  bedside,  and  watched  his  slumbers.  Breakfast  was 
now  ready,  and  Kate  tapped  at  my  door. 

"  Come,  Helen,"  said  she,  "  Iloland  is  quietly  sleeping ; 
let  us  go  to  breakfast." 

"  I  am  afraid  to  leave  him,"  I  replied.  "  Do  you  not  think 
he  must  be  very  ill,  Katherine,  not  to  awaken  at  my  call  ?" 

"  No,  Nellie,"  replied  Kate  ;  "  he  's  well  enough,  —  much 
better  than  you  are,  sitting  here  vexing  yourself  to  death  on 
his  account.  He  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  himself  to  treat  your 
affectionate  devotion  with  such  ingratitude." 

"  Hush,  Katie  !  "  said  I,  softly  ;  "  do  not  be  severe  upon 
my  poor  Roland,  because  he  sleeps  so  long  this  morning.  I 
will  go  to  breakfast  with  you." 

At  the  table  I  noticed  several  young  gentlemen  from  Lin 
den.  They  came  forward  and  bowed  to  me.  I  acknowl 
edged  their  salutations  rather  stiffly,  however,  for  they  were 
not  the  sort  of  people  that  I  fancied.  They  were  young  men 


322  BOSTON     COMMON. 

« 

of  the  first  families ;  but  rumor  did  not  speak  well  of  their 
reputation.  It  never  occurred  to  me  that  these  fashionable 
young  men  might  have  been  the  ones  with  whom  Roland  had 
spent  the  past  night.  I  had  often  heard  him  speak  in  terms  of 
disapprobation  of  their  wild,  reckless  conduct,  and  I  did  not 
think,  for  a  moment,  that  they  had  aught  to  do  with  him. 

Roland  did  not  awaken  until  twelve  o'clock  that  day ;  but, 
supposing  him  to  be  weary  with  the  wakefulness  of  the  past 
night,  I  made  no  further  attempts  to  arouse  him.  Kate  and 
myself  spent  our  morning  in  embroidery  and  conversation,  and 
the  time  passed  quite  pleasantly.  « 

At  length  Roland  awoke.  "  Well,  girls,  you  are  very  indus 
trious,  are  you  not  ?  "  said  he. 

I  arose  and  ran  eagerly  to  the  bedside.  "  And  you,  dear 
Roland,"  I  replied,  "  are  you  very  ill  ?  Do  you  feel  any  as 
you  did  last  spring,  when  you  were  taken,  with  that  dreadful 
fever  ?  " 

"  Me  !  "  laughed  Roland.  "  I  am  well,  quite  well,  — 
never  better  in  my  life.  What  has  put  the  idea  into  your 
little  head  that  I  was  ill  ?  " 

"  Why,  Roland,"  I  replied,  "  it  is  now  twelve  o'clock,  and 
you  have  slept  all  the  morning.  You  never  did  the  like 
before,  and  I  thought  of  course  that  you  must  be  ill." 

"  I  am  well  enough,"  he  replied ;  "  only  confoundedly 
thirsty.  Hand  me  that  tumbler,  Helen  ;  no,  the  pitcher." 

I  reached  him  both  tumbler  and  pitcher.  He  raised  the 
latter  to  his  lips,  and  drank  long  and  deep  of  its  contents. 
Then,  sitting  down  by  Kate  and  myself,  he  appeared  so  gay 
and  playful  that  I  soon  felt  entirely  at  ease  concerning 
him. 


BOSTON     COMMON.  323 

To  my  questions  as  to  his  whereabouts  the  night  before,  he 
answered  that  he  had  been  invited  to  a  supper,  and  that  he 
had  accepted  the  invitation,  and  gone  almost  without  a 
moment's  notice ;  consequently,  that  he  had  had  no  time  to 
inform  me  of  it.  I  told  him,  in  glowing  terms,  of  the  agony 
I  had  endured  at  his  prolonged  absence,  at  which  he  only 
laughed,  and  called  me  a  dear  little  devotee. 


CHAPTER    XXXI. 

.  .  • 

"  Insensible  i  la  vie,  insensible  &  la  mort, 
II  ne  sait  quand  il  veille,  il  ne  sait  quand  il  clort." 

RACISTE. 

"  A  babe  in  a  house  is  a  well-spring  of  pleasure,  a  messenger  of  peace 

and  love. 
A  resting-place  for  innocence   on   earth  ;    a  link  between  angels  and 

men : 

Yet  it  is  a  talent  of  trust,  a  loan  to  be  rendered  back  with  interest  ; 
A  delight,  but  redolent   of  care  ;    honey-sweet,   but   lacking  not   the 

bitter, 

And  the  bent  unto  good  or  evil  may  be  given  in  the  hours  of  infancy." 

PROVERBIAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

• 

ANOTHER  week  passed  by,  and  we  were  once  more  on  our 
journey  home.  The  young  men  whom  I  had  seen  had  left 
Saratoga  in  a  day  or  two  afterwards,  and  Roland  had  been 
again  as  kind  and  attentive  as  ever.  I  had  half  forgotten  my 
unpleasant  dream,  and  when  we  arrived  in  Boston  was  quite 
ready  to  enter  into  its  pleasures  with  my  husband  and  friend. 
We  remained  a  week  in  this  city,  as  Kate  had  never  been 
here  before,  and  I  longed  to  show  her  all  the  dear  old  familiar 
places  I  had  so  often  described  to  her  in  my  letters.  We  vis 
ited  the  Athenaeum,  and  stood  for  hours  examining  the  works 


BOSTON     COMMON.  325 

of  art,  the  paintings  and  sculpture,  that  adorned  its  walls  and 
recesses.  We  also  visited  Faneuil  Hall,  Tremont  Temple, 
the  Market,  and  every  other  place  of  note. 

There  happened  to  be  a  distinguished  singer  at  this  time  in 
Boston,  and  I  was  quite  happy  in  witnessing  Kate's  delight 
at  the  divine  warblings  of  this  celebrated  artiste.  But  the 
spot  I  loved  best  on  earth  —  the  beautiful  Common  —  we 
reserved  for  the  last.  We  visited  it  one  lovely  summer's 
evening,  and  wandered  together  among  its  sequestered  bowers. 
I  pointed  out  to  Kate  the  level  walks,  the  limpid  pond,  and 
the  over-arching  trees,  I  had  so  often  described  to  her ; 
also  the  little  hill  where  I  had  sat  so  many  times  with  both 
Ernest  and  Harry.  I  showed  her  the  great  elm-tree,  under 
whose  protecting  branches  I  had  m«t  Roland,  and,  in  the 
sweet  evening  hour,  had  plighted  my  troth  to  him.  And 
then  I  took  her  to  the  spot  where  the  gentle  Harry  had 
breathed  his  last  —  where  I  had  listened  to  his  parting 
words  and  received  his  blessing ;  and,  lastly,  I  pointed  out 
to  her  the  grave  of  him  who  had  brought  to  me  the  bread 
of  heaven,  and. urged  me  to  accept  the  spiritual  waters  of 
life. 

Kate  was  delighted  with  the  Common.  She  gazed  with 
admiration  at  the  lofty  trees,  and  was  never  weary  of  wander 
ing  through  the  shady  paths,  or  of  watching  the  beautiful 
fountain,  as  it  fell,  with  many  graceful  evolutions,  to  the  basin 
of  the  pond,  or  dashed  its  cool,  rainbow-colored  spray  about 
our  feet.  • 

At  length  we  found  ourselves  at  home  once  more,  and, 
wearied  with  our  long  journey,  were  not  sorry  for  the  oppor 
tunity  .of  resting  a  while.  Letitia  was  quite  overjoyed  to 
28 


326  BOSTON    COMMON. 

see  us  again,  and  went  into  some  of  her  old  raptures  over  us  ; 
which  I  overlooked  on  this  occasion,  and,  kissing  the  little 
Helen,  who  had  grown  very  finely,  expressed  my  pleasure  in 
seeing  them  both  looking  so  well  and  happy. 

"  0  yes,  Helen,"  said  Mrs.  Roscoe,  "  I  am  perfectly  con 
tent,  and  shall  be  delighted  to  spend  my  life  with  you  in  this 
dear  retreat ;  for  I  have  found  that  peace  and  comfort  here 
which  it  was  impossible  to  obtain  elsewhere." 

And  so  it  seemed ;  for  Letitia  did  not  trouble  herself  much 
about  anything  beyond  her  chamber.  She  busied  herself  in 
taking  care  of  her  child,  to  whom  she  seemed  exceedingly 
attached,  and  in  reading  a  parcel  of  novels  she  had  brought 
from  the  Alleghanies. 

I  now  resolved  to  fulfil  my  vows  to  God,  by  endeavoring 
to  do  his  wjll.  I  resumed  my  hours  of  devotion,  and  read 
and  reflected  upon  a  portion  of  Scripture,  daily.  I  prayed 
for  and  with  Roland  whenever  he  could  be  induced  to  be 
present,  and  endeavored,  by  precept  and  example,  to  turn  his 
mind  away  from  the  frivolous  things  of  earth,  and  to  fix  it 
upon  the  lasting  joys  of  eternity.  I  saw  with  pain,  however, 
that  the  subject  was  utterly  distasteful  to  him  ;  that  he  was 
very  impatient  while  listening  to  me,  and  that  he  did  not  ap 
pear  to  enjoy  my  society  as  much  as  formerly. 

His  evening  visits  were  again  resumed,  and  I  was  left 
alone  to  amuse  myself  as  best  I  could.  I  spent  much  of  my 
time  in  wrestling  for  Roland  at  the  foot  of  the  cross,  and  in 
entreating  Gad  that  he  would  bring  him  to  Himself;  and  I 
felt  assured  that  He  would  do  it  all  in  His  own  good  time. 

"  Roland,"  said  I  to  him,  one  evening,  after  tea,  "  I  wish 
you  would  remain  at  home  with  me  to-night." 


BOSTON     COMMON.  327 

"I  cannot,  Helen,"  he  answered.  "I  have  much  that 
calls  me  away,  —  business,  friends,  &c." 

"  Ah !  Roland,  what  friends  or  business  could  once  have 
lured  you  from  my  side  ?  I  much  fear  that  you  have  lost 
your  pleasure  in  my  society." 

"  No,  indeed,  Helen.  I  am  only  happy  when  with  you ; 
but  home  is  monotonous  sometimes,  and  I  must  have  excite 
ment." 

I  looked  at  him  in  surprise.  "  Our  beautiful  home  monot 
onous,  Holand  !  "  said  I,  —  "  where  everything  pleases  the 
eye  of  taste  and  refinement ;  where  every  comfort  meets 
your  necessities ;  where  your  wife,  whom  you  profess  so 
dearly  to  love,  is  always  ready  to  receive  you  with  kind  words 
and  affectionate  caresses  !  I  should  suppose  it  would  be  just 
the  place  where  the  weary  wanderer  would  gladly  repose, 
after  a  sharp  encounter  with  the  world, — just  the  spot  for 
happiness  and  content." 

My  husband  whistled,  walked  about  the  floor,  and  appeared 
quite  uneasy  while  I  was  speaking.  "  Onqe,"  I  continued, 
"  you  never  wished  to  leave  either  me  or  your  home;  and  now 
it  seems  that  you  invent  excuses  in  order  to  get  away,  do  you 
not,  Roland  ?  " 

"  Pshaw  !  "  he  replied.  "  How  strangely  you  talk  !  The 
fact  is,  Nell,  you  and  I  differ  in  some  points.  You  are  con 
tent  to  remain  at  home  always,  and  your  heart  and  happiness 
are  there.  It  is  quite  different  with  me.  I  take  a  larger, 
more  extended  view  of  life.  I  want  to  mingle  with  the 
world.  I  wish  to  ascertain  what  is  going  .on'  in  a  political 
and  commercial  point  of  view.  My  mind  is  large ;  it  em- 
braces  the  whole,  and  I  am  not,  I  confess,  content  with  the 
narrow  sphere  in  which  you  move." 


328  BOSTON     COMMON. 

I  smiled  as  he  got  off  this  smart  speech.  "Why,  Ro 
land,"  said  I,  "  I  am  not  content  with  a  narrow  sphere,  unless 
it  is  God's  will  to  place  me  there.  I  too  like  to  know  what 
is  going  on  in  the  world.  Although  I  am  a  woman,  I  take  a 
deep  interest  in  all  that  concerns  our  beloved  country ;  her 
welfare  and  prosperity  are  the  first  wishes  of  my  heart ;  but 
we  can  surely  learn  all  we  wish  to  know  from  the  society 
that  frequents  our  house,  and  from  reading.  I  do  not  see 
that  your  argument  has  anything  to  do  with  those  mysterious 
evening  visits,  Roland." 

He  made  no  reply,  but,  after  taking  a  turn  or  two,  left  the 
room  ;  and  I  saw  him  no  more  until  eleven  o'clock,  when  he 
came  home,  sick,  as  I  thought,  and  wept  immediately  to  bed. 
The  same  appearance  of  languor  and  ill-health  exhibited  them 
selves  in  his  countenance  as  when  at  Saratoga,  and  the  same 
deep  sleep  confined  him  to  his  couch  until  late  the  following 
day.  I  was  really  alarmed  this  time,  and  wondered  what 
it  could  be  that  distressed  him  so  much. 

"  Roland  must  have  some  deep  grief  to  contend  with," 
thought  I,  "  or  he  would  not  surely  bear  the  marks  of  it  so 
plainly  in  his  face." 

What  was  I  to  do,  however?  I  could  only  weep  and 
pray  for  him,  and  hope  that  I  might  some  day  be  permitted 
to  know  the  mystery  that  was  riveting  its  chains  around  my 
heart. 

For  a  week  past  my  husband  had,  to  my  great  joy,  re 
mained  at  home  every  night ;  but  I  noticed  with  pain  that 
some  secret  grief,  seemed  to  be  preying  upon  him.  In  vain 
I  searched  every  nook  of  my  heart,  to  see  if  it  had  failed 
in  any  point  of  duty  or  affection  towards  him ;  and,  after 


BOSTON     C.OMMON.  329 

seeing  him  labor  under  depression  as  long  as  I  could  bear  it, 
I  went  to  him,  and  boldly  broached  the  subject  thus : 

"  My  dear  Roland,  why  are  you  thus  sad  and  dispirited  ? 
Is  there  anything  I  can  possibly  do  to  relieve  you  from  the 
weight  of  grief  that  seems  to  be  pressing  upon  your  mind  ? 
If  there  is,  you  know  you  have  but  to  speak,  and  I  am  wholly 
at  your  service." 

He  mused  a  few  moments.  At  length  he  said,  "  Helen, 
you  can  do  it ;  yes,  y<fu  alone  can  relieve  my  necessities." 

"  Your  necessities,  Roland  ?  "  said  I,  inquiringly. 

"  Yes,  Helen,"  he  answered.  "  I  might  as  well  tell  you 
first  as  last,  I  suppose.  I  am  once  more  in  pecuniary 
trouble.  Business  has  gone  wrong  with  me.  Debts  and 
creditors  press  me  on  every  side,  and  I  am  unable  to  meet 
my  payments." 

I  mused  a  few  moments.  "And  can  I  assist  you,  Ro 
land  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  You  can,  Helen,"  he  replied.  "  You  can,  if  you  will, 
extricate  me,  and  see  me  once  more  freed  entirely  from  a 
weight  of  care  that  is  fast  killing  me." 

"  How  ?  "  I  asked.  "  You  have  only  to  say  the  word,  and 
you  are  aware  how  quickly  it  will  be  done." 

"  Then,  Helen,"  he  answered,  "  I  will  not  fear  to  tell  you ; 
for  your  noble  nature  cannot  be  happy  in  seeing  your  hus 
band  suffer,  when  you  can  so  easily  relieve  him." 

"  Now,"  thought  I,  "  it  is  coming." 

"  Well,  Nellie,"  resumed  Roland,  "  I  have  become  in 
volved  in  business  deeper  than  you  can  imagine.  It  might  bo 
my  youth  and  want  of  experience,  or  my  partner's  fault,  I 
know  not  which,  but  certain  it  is  that  ruin  stares  me  in  the 
28* 


330  BOSTON     COMMON. 

* 

face.  I  have  struggled  against  this  evil  until  I  have  nearly 
died ;  and  my  only  desire  has  been  to  spare  you,  my  Helen, 
from  this  pain.  But  all  my  efforts  have  been  useless.  I 
shall  be  ruined  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  my  reputation  and 
credit  gone  forever,  unless  you,  Helen,  will  step  forward  and 
lend  me  a  helping  hand." 

"  But  how,  dear  Roland,  can  I  do  this  ?  " 

"  Why,  by  raising  a  fund  of  money  from  your  estate  suf 
ficient  to  defray  my  debts.  My  character  will  thus  be  saved, 
and  I  shall  be  ready  to  begin  the  world  with  new  hopes  and 
energies." 

"And  is  that  all,  dear  Roland?"  I  asked.  "You  know 
that  myself  and  my  fortune  are  yours.  I  wish  you  to  con 
sider  that  this  estate  belongs  to  you  as  well  as  to  myself. 
Use  it  as  you  please,  —  only  bring  peace  to  your  mind,  and  let 
me  see  no  more  care  shading  that  brow,  where  only  sunshine 
should  dwell." 

"  Bless  you,  my  wife !  "  he  replied.  "  You  have  indeed 
removed  a  weight  from  my  mind.  You  have,  as  you  always 
did,  brought  peace  once  more  into  my  breast." 

0  Roland  !  how  could  you  deceive  me  so  ?  The  tempter 
had  indeed  taken  strong  hold  of  his  victim,  when  he  could 
thus  invent  such  plans  to  deprive  his  wife  of  happiness,  home, 
and  inheritance. 

The  next  day  the  papers  were  made  out,  and  once  more  I 
affixed  my  name  to  a  document  that  deprived  me  of  another 
third  of  the  estate  I  had  inherited  from  my  father.  That  I 
felt  sad,  gloomy,  and  dispirited,  after  this,  is  not  to  be  won 
dered  at.  I  had  imbibed  the  idea  that  some  evil  was  hang 
ing  over  our  house,  and  that  I  was  blindly  yielding  to  it, 


BOSTON    COMMON. 

without  the  power  to  avert  it.  Roland  laughed  at  my  fears, 
and  said  that  my  gloomy  feelings  were  induced  by  my  situa 
tion  (I  had  again  become  enceinte),  and  that  I  should  proba 
bly  soon  recover  my  spirits. 

I  tried,  upon  his  advice,  to  shake  off  my  depression ;  but  it 
clung  to  me,  and,  in  spite  of  the  assurance  that  I  was  again 
about  to  become  a  mother,  I  could  not  rally.  How  could  I 
be  otherwise  than  sad,  when  I  found  that  my  sacrifice  had 
been  almost  in  vain?  for  Roland,  although  his  gloom  had  van 
ished,  had  again  absented  himself  from  home,  and  I  was  left 
alone,  to  conjecture,  evening  after  evening,  the  cause  of  his 
absence. 

When  questioned,  he  would  reply  that  he  was  settling  up 
the  business  of  the  firm ;  that  it  occupied  him  day  and  night, 
and  that  he  had  not  a  moment  to  spare.  His  evening  visits, 
however,  became  far  more  frequent,  and  his  morning  napa 
longer. 

"  Would  it  not  be  preferable,  Roland,"  said  I  to  him,  one 
day,  "  for  you  to  remain  at  home  in  the  evening,  and  arise 
early  in  the  morning  ?  You  would,  by  thus  doing,  find  suffi 
cient  time  to  attend  to  your  business,  without  turning  your 
night  into  day." 

"  It  would,  indeed,  Helen,"  he  replied;  "  but  the  men  with 
whom  I  transact  business  can  only  attend  to  it  in  the  even 
ing."  He  spoke  the  truth.  They  could  not,  indeed. 

The  constant  anxiety  of  mind  under  which  I  labored  at 
length  brought  on  a  low,  nervous  fever,  which  was  considered, 
in  my  then  situation,  very  dangerous.  My  illness  seemed  to 
arouse  my  husband.  By  some  unknown  effort  he  conquered 
his  habits  and  desires,  and  never  left  me  until  our  child  was 


332  "     BOSTON     COMMON. 

born.  He  was  constantly  at  my  bedside.  His  band  mixed 
and  presented  the  cooling  drink ;  bis  arm  lent  assistance  to 
my  weakened  frame,  and  bis  lips  ever  breathed  words  of  affec 
tion  to  my  drooping  heart. 

Roland's  sudden  return  to  home  and  duty,  his  society,  to 
gether  with  an  uncommonly  fine  constitution,  carried  me  once 
more  safely  through  this  dangerous  period.  Another  babe  was— 
given  us;  but  with  what  unspeakable  rapture  did  I  gaze 
upon  the  face  of  this  sweet  child,  and  find  that  it  breathed  — 
that  it  lived !  I  was  too  happy  for  words,  but  in  my  feeble 
ness  pressed  my  first  kiss- upon  its  infant  brow,  and  breathed 
over  it  a  mother's  blessing. 

Roland,  too,  was  happy ;  and  as  he  gazed  upon  the  face  of 
his  boy,  he  was  sensible  of  a  transport  hitherto  unknown, 
and  would  spend  hours  in  nursing  and  fondling  the  tiny 
thing. 

I  was  now,  although  ill  and  suffering,  quite  happy.  My 
husband  was,  as  I  supposed,  fully  restored  to  me ;  and  our 
child  was  a  constant  source  of  enjoyment  to  us  both.  Kath- 
erine  Merton  had,  as  usual  when  I  was  sick,  again  taken  up 
her  residence  in  the  house ;  and  once  more,  with  her  careful 
nursing,  I  was  restored  to  health. 

My  nursery  now,  to  my  delight,  echoed  with  the  sound  of 
children's  happy  voices;  for  Letitia  would  often  bring  her 
little  Helen  down  to  play  with  my  Willie,  and,  as  we  sat 
together  with  our  beautiful  babes,  no  fairer,  prettier  sight 
could  be  seen. 

It  was  cold,  bitter  January  when  Willie  was  born,  and  I 
was  not  allowed  to  leave  the  house  until  spring  had  once 
more  commenced  her  gentle  reign.  With  what  delight  did  I 


BOSTON     COMMON.  333 

now  hail  her  return  !  How  bright  looked  the  blue  sky,  and 
how  fair  the  opening  buds  and  flowers  !  I  was  never  weary 
of  wandering  abroad  in  the  green  fields,  with  my  babe  in  my 
arms,  or  of  gathering  for  him  the  bright  blossoms.  My  happy 
childhood  seemed  once  more  to  have  returned  to  me.  I  was 
again  as  merry  and  blithe  as  ever. 

I  was  too  much  engrossed  with  my  child  to  notice,  at  first, 
that  my  husband  had  resumed  his  former  practice  of  absent 
ing  himself  from  home.  I  soon  perceived  it,  however,  and 
ventured  to  remonstrate  with  him  for  it. 

"  Helen,"  said  he,  with  some  asperity,  "  I  have  laeen  con 
stantly  at  your  side  for  months.  I  have  watched  unremit 
tingly  at  your  sick  couch,  and  have  been  happy  only  with 
you..  I  have,  by  so  doing,  neglected  my  business ;  and  now  I 
must  break  away  from  the  sweet  endearments  of  home,  and 
give  my  attention  strictly  where  it  is  most  demanded.  So, 
do  not  bore  me  any  more,  with  your  ill-timed  questions  or 
advice." 

I  turned  away  my  head,  and  burst  into  tears.  These  were 
the  first  unkind  words  I  had  ever  heard  my  husband  utter, 
and  they  affected  me  painfully.  They  had  the  power  of 
silencing  me,  however.  I  said  no  more  to  him,  but  waited  in 
trembling  to  see  what  would  come  next. 


CHAPTER    XXXII. 

"  Wild,  hurrying  thoughts 
Start  every  way  from  my  distracted  soul, 
To  find  out  hope,  and  only  meet  despair." 

SOUTH'S  FATAL  MAKRIAGE. 

ONE  day,  early  in  June,  my  mother  came  in  to  see  me.  I 
noticed,  with  pain,  that  she  looked  pale  and  anxious  about 
something. 

"  Helen,"  said  she,  "  are  you  quite  well  ?  Have  you  recov 
ered  entirely  from  your  illness  ?  " 

"  0,  yes,  dear  mother,"  I  replied,  "  I  am  well  enough 
now ;  but  why  do  you  ask  ?  " 

"  Because,  my  dear,"  she  answered,  "  I  have  a  disagreea 
ble  duty  to  perform,  and  which  must  not,  unless  you  are  still 
suffering  from  indisposition,  be  delayed  any  longer.  I  wish, 
my  dear  child,  to  urge  upon  you  the  necessity  there  is  of 
endeavoring  to  restrain  your  husband  in  his  expenses  and 
excesses." 

"  What  mean  you,  dearest  mother,"  I  wildly  asked,  "  by 
his  excesses  ?  He  has  none,  that  I  know  of." 

My  mother  looked  at  me  in  astonishment.  "  Is  it  possible, 
then,  my  child,"  said  she,  "  that  you  do  not  know,  that  you 
are  ignorant  of — " 


BOSTON    COMMON.  335 

"  What,  dearest  mother,  that  I  do  not  know  ?  What  am  I 
ignorant  of?  " 

"  Ifcannot  be,"  continued  my  mother,  as  if  speaking  to 
herself;  "  of  course  it  cannot  be." 

"  What  cannot  be,  mother  ?  I  am  on  the  rack  to  knojv  to 
what  you  allude.  Pray,  tell  me." 

"  Why,"  replied  my  mother,  "  you  are  surely  aware  that 
Roland  is  often  absent  from  home,  are  you  not  ?  " 

"  I  am,"  "I  answered,  blushing ;  for  no  person  had  ever 
before  breathed  aught  to  me  %ainst  the  name  of  my  hus 
band. 

^  "And  that,  surely,"  said  my  mother,  "was  confirmation 
strong  enough  to  lead  you  to  suppose  —  " 

"To  suppose  what,  mother?  " 

"  Why,  that  your  husband  is,  what  all  the  world,  it  seems, 
but  yourself,  know  him  to  be,  a  common  drunkard  and  gam 
bler  ! " 

I  raised  my  hand  to  my  forehead,  gave  a  cry  of  unuttera 
ble  anguish,  and  fainted.  How  long  I  remained  in  this  situa 
tion  I  know  not ;  but  when  I  revived  my  poor  mother  was 
sitting  weeping  by  my  bedside.  The  dreadful  words  she  had 
last  uttered  were  yet  ringing  in  my  ears,  and,  starting  wildly 
from  my  couch,  I  cast  myself  at  her  feet. 

"  0,  mother,  dear  mother !  "  sobbed  I,  "  tell  me,  in  mercy 
tell  me,  that  those  cruel  words  you  have  uttered  were  false ! 
I  ask  you,  mother,  if  you  love  me,  if  ever  you  have  loved  me, 
if  you  wish  not  to  crush,  to  kill  me,  unsay  that  dreadful  sen 
tence  —  take  back  what  you  have  blasted  my  ears  by  say- 
ing!" 

I  clasped  my  mother's  dress,  and  looked  imploringly  into 


336  BOSTON    COMMON. 

her  face,  as  she  knelt,  and,  kissing  me,  wiped  the  damp  dew 
from  my  forehead,  and  laid  me  gently  upon  the  sofa. 

"  My  child,  my  Helen,"  said  she,  mournfully,  "  now  is  the 
time  to  test  the  strength  of  your  religion;  now  is  the  time  to 
put  your  trust  in  the  Father  of  Mercies.  He  still  stands  by 
your  side,  and  will  lead  you,  with  smiles,  from  the  thorniest, 
roughest  path.  Alas !  my  beloved  girl,  I  cannot  take  back 
whaf  I  have  said,  for  it  is  indeed  too  true ;  and  I  supposed 
that  you  had  long  ago  been  aware  of  a  fact  that  is  generally 
known." 

I  know  not  how  I  survived  this  confirmation  of  her  words. 
I.  lay  for  some  moments  perfectly  still ;  but  the  misery  of 
years  was  endured  in  that  one  little  space  of  time.  My  Ro 
land,  my  husband,  the  beloved  partner  of  my  joys  and  sor 
rows,  the  father  of  my  child,  was  a  drunkard  and  gambler ! 
Think  of  this,  ye  rum-sellers !  for  I  am  relating  facts,  and 
stern  facts.  Think  of  the  misery  ye  entail  upon  the  innocent ! 
Ye  dress  your  faces  in  smiles,  and  pour  out  the  poison  in 
sparkling  glasses,  which  ye  distil  into  the  veins  of  your 
wretched  victims,  and  which  carries  sorrow  and  devastation 
into  many  a  fair  heart  and  happy  home  of  this,  our  peaceful 
country ! 

How  I  survived,  I  say,  how  I  lived,  I  know  not ;  but  I 
did  live,  and  lived  to  suffer.  When  I  grew  a  little  calmer, 
my  mother  informed  me  that  Roland  had  long  had  the  habit 
of  drinking,  but  that  it  had  not  been  generally  known  until 
lately ;  that  he  had  not  failed  in  business,  as  he  had  repre 
sented  to  me,  but  that  he  had,  under  pretence  of  trouble  and 
embarrassments,  coaxed  and  induced  me  to  deed  away  two 
thirds  of  my  property.  This  money,  she  informed  me,  he  had 


BOSTON     COMMON.  387 

spent  in  drinking  and  gambling  -with  a  certain  set  of  rowdies, 
who  called  themselves  gentlemen,  but  who  had,  under  pre 
tence  of  friendship,  deluded  him  away  from  his  home,  and 
made  a  complete  victim  of  him. 

"  I  was  many  times  upon  the  point  of  mentioning  this  to 
you,  my  dear  child,"  continued  my  mother,  "  with  the  inten 
tion  of  urging  you  to  take  better  care  of  your  property ;  but 
your  situation  was  a  hindrance,  and  I  resolved,  until  you 
were  perfectly  restored  to  health,  to  keep  silent  concern 
ing  it.  But,  now  that  you  know  all,  be  sure  and  let  him  have 
no  more  of  your  property.  Keep  it  for  yourself  and  Willie. 
God  knows  you  will  need  it  soon  enough,  for  your  own  neces 
sities.  " 

For  a  long  time  after  my  mother  had  done  speaking  I  lay 
in  a  perfect  stupor.  My  grief,  coming  as  it  did  so  suddenly 
upon  me,  and  without  a  ray  of  hope,  almost  crushed  me ;  but 
I  slowly  revived,  and  realized  fully  my  misery.  All  Roland's 
strange  behavior  was  now  fully  accounted  for.  His  midnight 
visits,  his  morning  slumbers,  his  changed  appearance,  his 
thirst,  —  all  was  now  clear  as  day.  And  how  blind*  had  I 
been,  how  stupid  !  I  had  watched  him  for  hours  in  the  great 
est  anxiety ;  had  noticed  again  and  again  the  flush  upon  his 
cheek,  and  prayed  that  it  might  not  proceed  from  fever ;  had 
knelt  and  prayed  many  a  time  beside  his  couch ;  and  all  the 
while  I  had  been  watching  the  sleep  of  a  drunkard !  And 
how  cruelly  had  he  deceived  me,  and,  under  false  pretences, 
wasted  two  thirds  of  my  fine  estate  at  the  gaming-table ! 

Ah,  Ernest !  your  dark  prophecy  was  nearly  fulfilled  —  you 
were  already  fearfully  avenged ! 

That  night,  when  my  husband  came  home,  I  still  lay  upon 
29 


338  BOSTON    COMMON. 

the  sofa,  without  the  power  or  inclination  to  speak ;  but  I 
gazed  at  him  in  a  kind  of  dream.  I  noticed  his  countenance, 
and  was  surprised  to  find  there  the  traces  of  a  recklessness  and 
dissipation  which  I  had  never  before  beheld.  His  eyes  were 
heavy  and  bloodshot,  his  face  flushed  with  the  wine-cup,  his 
gait  unsteady,  and,  as  he  reeled  rather  than  walked  to  the 
bed,  I  turned  away  my  head  and  shuddered. 

"Can  that  be,"  thought  I,  "my  beautiful  and  idolized 
Roland,  whose  very  name  had  power  to  bring  a  flush  of  joy 
to  my  cheek  ?  Is  that  the  man  whom  I  have  so  blindly  wor 
shipped  for  many  a  long  ye^r  ?  Ah  !  where  is  the  gem  I  so 
highly  valued  ?  Gone,  alas  !  gone,  never  more  to  return." 

He  staggered  towards  the  sofa  where  I  lay.  "  Nell,  I  say, 
arise  and  come  to  bed,  will  you  ?  "  said  he.  His  voice  was 
thick  and  unnatural,  and  his  eyes  were  half  closed. 

"  Will  you  come,  Nellie  ?  "  he  entreated. 

"  No,"  said  I,  in  a  decided  tone  ;  "  no,  I  will  not  come  ! " 

He  looked  at  me  for  a  moment  with  a  vacant  stare,  then 
laughing,  as  if  something  witty  had  been  said,  reeled  off  to 
bed,  and  was  in  a  few  moments  sound  asleep. 

But  -O  for  the  wretched  watcher  that  kept  vigil  in  that 
room  all  night,  and  listened  to  the  breathings  of  the  drunk 
ard  ;  that  wept  over  the  fair  babe,  born  to  such  a  base  heritage ; 
that  prayed,  in  bitter  anguish  of  spirit,  for  just  one  spark  of 
hope,  one  ray  of  consolation  !  None  but  God  knew  the  feel 
ings  of  that  heart,  as  she  poured  from  the  depths  of  her 
anguished  spirit  her  whole  soul  into  his  listening  ear. 

I  mourned  that  I  had  forever  lost  all  respect  for  him  who 
should  have  commanded,  next  to  God,  my  highest  reverence. 
I  mourned  that  I  had  wasted  so  much  love,  so  much  affection, 


BOSTON     COMMON.  339 

upon  nothing ;  that  I  had  ventured  my  all  into  a  frail  bark, 
and  that  it  had  foundered  and  left  me  alone  upon  the  dark 
waters,  without  rudder  or  pilot.  I  was  now  floating  about, 
with  scarcely  the  chance  of  a  straw  to  save  me  from  drown 
ing.  I  had  expected  too  much,  —  had  looked  for  perfection, 
and  found  only  disappointment  and  degradation.  I  had  come 
to  my  tree,  expecting  to  see  fruit  thereon  ;  but  had  found  only 
ashes, —  the  apples  were  fair  to  look  upon,  but  rotten  at  the 
core.  My  whole  life  was  a  complete  failure.  I  had  been 
living  and  striving  for  happiness,  had  labored  hard  to  attain 
it,  had  rejected  my  friends'  counsel,  had  chosen  for  myself, 
had  gone  blindly  on  in  my  own  way,  had  embraced  what  I 
supposed  to  be  enduring,  and  now  shame,  disgrace,  and  per 
haps  poverty,  stared  me  in  the  face.  My  affections  were 
blighted ;  my  young,  beautiful  ideas  forever  dispelled ;  my 
fresh,  pure  feelings  crushed  ;  my  heart  filled  with  a  suspicion 
of  all  the  world,  and  a  gloomy,  misanthropic  spirit  was  slowly 
but  surely  taking  possession  of  me. 

I  had  lost  all  hope.  I  could  never  reclaim  Roland.  I 
scarcely  wished  to  do  it ;  for,  should  he  ever  be  free  from 
the  slavery  of  his  vices,  I  could  never  again  enjoy  his  society ; 
could  never  experience  the  same  sweet  confidence  as  of  old ; 
could  never  sit  by  his  side,  and,  with  hands  fondly  locked 
within  his,  pour  into  his  ears  all  the  outgushings  of  a  heart 
warm,  pure,  and  overflowing  with  love  for  him  alone.  No;  he 
was  forever  lost  to  me,  —  "  forever,  forever  !  "  and  I  repeated 
the  sad  words  with  a  low,  mournful  accent. 

From  my  earliest  youth  I  had  been  brought  up  in  the 
strictest  habits  of  temperance.  My  mother  had  inculcated  it 
daily  into  our  young  minds,  both  by  precept  and  example. 


340  BOSTON     COMMON. 

She  had  taught  us  to  be  temperate  in  the  use  of  our  food,  our 
drink,  our  language,  and  even  in  our  pleasures.  She  had  told 
us  that  the  world  was  fair ;  that  fruits,  flowers,  and  sweet 
objects,  were  meeting  us  at  every  turn  ;  that  everything  which 
could  charm  the  senses,  please  the  fancy,  or  gratify  the  appe 
tite,  was  spread  out  in  rich  abundance  before  us ;  but  that 
there  was  a  restriction  laid  upon  all  these  beautiful  things, 
and  that  in  order  to  enjoy  them  to  the  utmost  we  must  use 
them  in  moderation ;  that  we  must  not  violate  the  laws  of 
nature,  or  we  should  be  punished. 

She  taught  us  also  the  evils  of  the  wine-cup.  She  placed 
before  us  its  temptations,  its  brilliancy,  its  power  to  charm,  to 
lull  the  senses  into  forgetfulness,  to  soothe  the  heart  o'erbur- 
dened  with  anguish,  to  erase  the  sting  of  remorse  from  the 
conscience,  and  to  fill  the  mind  with  the  wild  joys  of  dream 
land. 

And  then  she  taught  us  of  the  bitter  awakening,  when  we 
should  start  from  these  dreams  and  find  our  minds  more 
keenly  alive  to  their  sorrows,  our  hearts  groaning  under  still 
heavier  burdens,  our  consciences  seared  with  still  deeper 
remorse,  our  visions  of  pleasure  changed  into  bitter  realities, 
our  sense  of  enjoyment  totally  vanished. 

She  told  us  also  of  the  evil,  the  ruin,  that  rum  had  the 
power  to  bring  upon  a  land.  It  could  cause  desolation  and 
destruction  to  alight  upon  the  sweetest,  fairest  home ;  could 
fill  with  anguish  the  fondest,  truest  heart  of  the  wife  and 
mother ;  could  blanch  the  cheek  of  the  fair  daughter  with 
shame,  could  blast  forever  the  prospects  of  the  rising  son ; 
that  it  was  cold,  pitiless,  and  cruel,  in  its  devastations ;  and 
that  it  was,  in  short,  the  chief  root  and  ground-work  of  all 
the  misery,  crime,  and  poverty,  in  the  land. 


BOSTON     COMMON.  341 

With  all  these  lessons,  it  is  not  strange  that  1  grew  up  per 
fectly  temperate  in  my  desires  and  actions.  My  home  was 
simple,  quiet,  and  comfortable.  No  gaudy,  obscene  pictures 
adorned  the  walls ;  nothing  was  there  that  could  induce  or . 
provoke  intemperance.  My  table  was  always  covered  with 
food,  good,  wholesome,  and  abundant,  but  plain.  No  spirit 
uous  liquors  were  ever  allowed  to  come  within  my  husband's 
or  my  own  reach,  as  far  as  my  influence  extended  ;  and  it  was 
only  in  cases  of  sickness  that  I  could  be  prevailed  upon  to 
allow  it  to  be  brought  into  the  house  at  all. 

I  had  also  a  perfect  horror  of  a  drunkard,  or  even  of  a 
moderate  drinker.  I  could  not  think,  with  any  degree  of 
patience,  of  a  person  who  imbibed  intoxicating  liquors,  who 
wilfully  poured  down  the  poison,  who  filled  his  veins  with  its 
fiery  waters,  and  who  carried  misery  and  destruction  to  home 
and  hearts,  merely  because  he  loved  to  gratify  his  taste,  his 
palate  !  What  a  miserable  object,  and  what  an  unworthy 
gratification  !  A  reformed  drunkard,  even,  was  an  object  of 
contempt  in  my  eyes.  I  could  never  forget  the  time  when  he 
had  made  a  beast  of  himself —  when  he  had,  as  it  were,  laid 
down  to  his  wine-cups ;  and,  as  my  confidence  in  him  had 
expired,  I  never  could  or  wished  to  have  it  again  renewed. 

Brought  up  as  I  had  been  by  a  pious  mother,  disliking  rum 
and  its  votaries  so  heartily,  it  is  no  wonder  that  I  should 
have  lost  all  hope  of  anything  further  from  Roland.  I  had 
lived,  and  enjoyed  to  the  utmost,  a  few  years  of  happiness  ; 
had  revelled  in  peace,  comfort;  and  plenty;  had  loved  my 
husband  with  all  the  power  of  my  soul ;  had  waited,  watched, 
and  longed  for  the  coming  of  his  footsteps ;  had  prayed  for 
him,  and  with  him ;  had  given  him  a  beautiful  home,  with 
29* 


342  BOSTON     COMMON. 

wealth,  station,  and  honor  in  the  eyes  of  the  world ;  had, 
even  without  a  murmur,  yielded  up  to  him  two  thirds  of  my 
property,  merely  to  save  his  credit  and  happiness,  as  I  fondly 
supposed  ;  —  and  how  had  he  repaid  all  my  untiring  love  and 
devotion  ? 

He  had  wronged,  deceived,  and  trampled  on  my  love ; 
played  with  my  credulity ;  invented  base  lies  to  wrest  large 
sums  of  money  from  me,  to  devote  to  the  purposes  of  drink 
ing  and  gambling.  He  had  left  that  calm,  sweet  home,  and 
a  wife  who  adored  him,  and  who  would  willingly  have  endured 
poverty,  hardship,  scorn,  or  anything  with  him,  to  meet  with 
those  vile  companions,  whose  very  names  he  dared  not 
mention  at  home,  lest  they  should  shock  her  purity ;  had 
brought  that  wife  by  his  conduct  upon  a  bed  of  suffering  and 
anguish ;  had  exposed  her  to  all  the  miseries  of  a  harassed 
mind ;  tortured  her  with  the  idea'that  he  was  sick  and  suffer 
ing  ;  condemned  her  to  watch  weary  nights  for  his  coming,  and 
then  to  hang  over  his  couch  for  hours,  dreading  the  time  he 
should  awaken,  lest  her  fears  of  a  mortal  illness  might  be 
confirmed.  How  had  he  hung  over  the  child  she  had  borne 
him,  in  so  much  sorrow,  with  untold  delight !  and  yet  how 
soon  had  he  left  that  child  for  the  vile  haunts  of  his  base 
associates,  and  stamped  forever  upon  its  innocent  brow  the 
brand  of  the  "  drunkard's  child  "  ! 

All  this  he  had  done,  and  all  these  sad  reflections  occupied 
my  mind  as  I  lay  upon  the  sofa  that  night.  Weary,  at  length, 
of  my  thoughts,  I  aroused  myself  from  my  recumbent  position, 
and  paced  the  floor  with  hurried  and  uneven  steps. 

The  morning  at  length  dawned,  after  an  eternity  of  night ; 
but,  0,  how  changed  were  my  feelings,  my  prospects,  from  its 


BOSTON     COMMON. 


343 


dawn  the  preceding  day !  That  terrible  night  of  agony  told 
a  bitter  tale  for  thee  and  me,  Roland !  With  a  mighty  effort 
I  threw  off  the  chain  that  had  bound  me  for  years  to  a  man 
every  way  my  inferior.  My  trust,  my  reverence,  were  gone ; 
and  henceforth  I  vowed  that  no  words  of  affection,  no  false 
sense  of  delicacy,  should  debar  me  from  performing  my  duty 
to  my  husband,  my  child,  and  myself. 

"  Now,  my  babe,"  said  I,  kissing  its  brow,  "  now  for  thee. 
One  ray  of  hope,  one  beam  of  consolation,  is  still  left  me ;  — 
thee,  my  little  one,  whom  I  will  guard  as  a  treasure,  whom  I 
will  keep  pure  and  unsullied  from  the  world.  No  guilt  shall 
lurk  around  thy  footsteps,  my  innocent  one,  —  no  temptation, 
that  thy  mother  can  avert,  shall  place  its  dazzling  form  in  thy 
way !  " 

1.  was  changed,  and  fearfully,  too.  I  felt  it  in  every  limb 
and  motion,  in  every  pulsation  of  my  heart.  A  sternness 
had  usurped  the  place  of  my  softness.  My  blood  felt  chilled, 
my  breath  unsteady.  I  surveyed  my  features  in  the 
glass,  —  was  it  my  cousin  Ernest's  face  that  I  gazed  upon  ? 
I  was  singularly  like  him  at  this  moment !  There  played  in 
the  gray  eyes  the  same  cold  light,  glistening  and  frosting  every 
thing  they  gazed  upon.  An  expression  of  painful  thought 
rested  upon  the  brow,  and  a  smile  of  torture  lingered  about 
the  mouth.  An  unnatural  and  singular  paleness  had  spread 
itself  over  my  whole  countenance.  Alas !  it  was  a  paleness 
that  reigned  in  that  face  for  many  a  long  day  ! 

Long  ere  the  morning  dawned,  I  had  resolved  upon  what 
course  to  take.  I  would  go  out  and  look  into  my  affairs  my 
self  ; — see  just  how  the  estate  was  situated;  put  what  re 
mained  in  proper  shape,  that  myself  and  child  might  reap  the 


344    •  BOSTONCOMMON. 

benefit  of  it ;  and  then  I  would  seek  Katherine  Merton,  and 
ascertain  from  her  how  far  my  husband  had  erred,  and  how 
his  character  stood  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  and  among  our 
associates.  I  felt  assured,  from  her  unfailing  friendship,  that 
she  would  tell  me  all ;  and  it  was  my  first  and  earnest  desire 
to  know  at  once  the  full  extent  of  my  misery. 


CHAPTER    XXXIII. 

"  But  in  the  matter  of  a  bargain, 
I  tell  thee,  I'll  cavil  on  the  ninth  part  of  a  hair." 

SHAKSPEARE. 

"  GOOD  heavens !  dearest  Helen,  wnat  can  be  the  matter 
with  you  this  morning?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Roscoe,  at  break 
fast.  "Are  you  ill  ?  Did  Willie  keep  you  awake,  or  has 
anything  horrible  happened?  You  look  so  white  and  un 
natural,  — just,  for  all  the  world,  as  poor  Ernest  Richmond 
looked,  the  morning  after  you  jilted  him  !  " 

I  smiled.  "  Nothing,  that  need  alarm  you,  dear  Letise," 
I  replied ;  "  I  shall  be  better  by  and  by,  I  trust." 

"  0,  I  am  so  glad  !  "  continued  she.  "  But,  speaking  of 
that  sober,  princified  cousin  of  yours,  excuse  me,  Helen,  but  I 
sometimes  think  that  you  would  have  been  admirably  fitted  for 
each  other;  your  tastes  and  habits  assimilated  so  well  to 
gether,  —  you  were  both  religious,  benevolent,  fond  of  doing 
good,  and  all  that.  Forgive  me,  Helen,  but  I  do  think, 
although  it 's  none  of  my  business,  that  you  did  not  treat  him 
exactly  right.  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  you  would  have 
been  far  happier,  in  the  end,  to  have  married  Ernest." 

Every  word  that  this  giddy  woman  uttered  sunk  deep  into 
my  heart,  and  almost  found  an  echo  there.  I  well  remem- 


i54b  BOSTON     COMMON. 

bered  how  I  had,  in  blindness  and  passion,  wrung  the  heart 
of  this  noble  being ;  how  he  had  yielded  me,  for  the  sake  of 
my  happiness,  to  another ;  and  how  he  had  warned  me  of  this 
very  time  which  had  now  come.  It  had,  as  yet,  but  just 
commenced.  "  Heaven  only  knows,"  thought  I,  "  what  fur 
ther  sufferings  are  yet  in  store  for  me  ;  but  I  must  bear  them 
as  patiently  as  I  can." 

As  soon  as  breakfast  was  over,  I  put  on  my  bonnet  and 
shawl,  and  went  out.  I  bent  my  steps  directly  to  the  office  of 
Mr.  Simpson,  the  man  to  whom  my  husband  had  mortgaged 
so  much  of  our  estate.  He  was  there,  and  appeared  quite 
surprised  upon  seeing  me. 

"  Good-morning,  Mr.  Simpson,"  said  I.  "  I  have  come  in 
for  the  express  purpose  of  having  a  little  talk  with  you,  if 
you  are  at  leisure,  relative  to  some  business  transactions 
which  my  husband  had  with  you,  rather  more  than  a  year 
ago,  and  which,  as  it  concerns  myself  also,  I  think  it  but 
right  that  I  should  look  into." 

He  seemed  quite  surprised,  and,  I  thought,  a  little  uneasy ; 
but  placed  a  chair  for  me,  and,  in  a  bland  tone,  desired  me  to 
honor  him  with  my  commands. 

"  Well,  then,  sir,"  I  commenced,  "  you  probably  remember 
the  business  to  which  I  allude.  I  wish  to  know  exactly  how 
it  stands,  and  whether  there  is  a  chance  of  redemption  or 
not?" 

"  I  am  sorry  to  inform  you,  madam,"  he  replied,  "  that  the 
mortgage  was  given  for  only  a  year,  and  that  the-  time  when 
it  should  have  been  paid  has  expired.  Your  husband  wanted 
the  money,  and  it  was  impossible  to  extend  the  pay-day  be 
yond  that  time.  I  therefore  took  the  land,  at  his  request, 


BOSTON    COMMON.  3 17 

and  let  him  have  the  money.  I  did  not  care  much  about 
doing  it,  for  I  feared  you  might  be  unwilling  to  yield  up  so 
much  of  your  estate,  but  he  informed  me  that  it  was  at  your 
request ;  and,  as  I  was  happy  to  be  honored  with  your 
wishes,  I  took  the  land,  and  let  him  have  the  money." 

"And  can  this  be  redeemed  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  The  mortgage  expired,  madam,"  he  answered,  "just  three 
months  ago.  The  money  agreed  upon  was  not  paid  me ;  and, 
after  waiting  a  proper  time  for  your  husband  to  make  his 
appearance,  I  took  possession  of  it." 

"And  is  there  not  a  longer  time  allowed  by  law  for  redemp 
tion  than  that  specified  in  the  mortgage  ?  "  I  asked. 

He  smiled  as  he  replied,  "  That  is  not  the  way  I  do  my 
business,  madam.  I  could  not  possibly  wait  so  long  for  the 
return  of  my  money  ;  and  so  I  do  not  take  an  exact  mortgage, 
but  a  deed,  which  amounts  to  the  same  thing,  with  this  excep 
tion  :  it  gives  me  the  whole  right,  title,  and  interest,  in  the 
land  specified,  without  any  provision  for  the  redemption,  —  a 
singular,  but  very  profitable,  way  of  doing  business,  madam." 

"  I  should  think  so!  "  I  replied,  smiling  sarcastically.  "And 
pray  what  interest  do  you  charge  in  your  friendly  proceedings, 
sir?" 

"  Money  is  hard  to  be  obtained,  Mrs.  Hastings,"  he 
answered,  "  and  so  I  always  charge  from  fifteen  to  twenty  per 
cent," 

"You  are  moderate,  sir  !  but  six  per  cent,  only  is  allowa 
ble  by  law.  How  do  you  usurers  manage  to  evade  the  law  in 
this  respect  ?  " 

"  Nothing  is  easier  done,  madam.  We  merely  reckon  up 
the  whole  year's  interest,  and  add  it  all,  with  the  exception 


348  BOSTON     COMMON. 

of  six  per  cent.,  to  the  sum  to  be  paid,  —  thus  making  one 
grand  lump  of  it,  —  and  this  saves  the  trouble  of  reckoning 
up  the  interest  on  pay-day." 

"An  exceeding  -clever  practice,  sir,  and  one  which  does 
credit  to  the  inventor !  And  so  this  large  tract  of  land  is 
yours,  without  the  power  of  redemption  ?  " 

"  It  is  so,  madam,  I  am  grieved  to  say  ;  but  you  can  plainly 
see  that  I  am  not  to  be  blamed  in  this  affair,  —  it  was  none 
of  my  seeking." 

"And  now,  sir,  for  the  other  third  of  my  estate ;  you  have 
a  trifling  interest  in  that  also,  I  believe  ?  " 

"  I  have,  madam,  a  very  trifling  interest.  Mr.  Hastings 
sold  it  to  another  gentleman,  who  afterwards  conveyed  a 
small  part  of  it  to  me." 

"Will  you  inform  me,  Mr.  Simpson,  what-  part  of  the 
estate  is  sold,  and  what  still  remains  to  us,  if  you  please  ?  " 

"  I  will,  madam,  with  pleasure." 

He  arose,  and,  taking  a  large  book  from,  his  shelf,  seated 
himself  by  my  side,  and  turned  to  a  certain  page. 

"Here,  Mrs.  Hastings,"  said  he,  "is  the  plan  of  your 
estate,  before  I  purchased  any  part  of  it.  I  had  it  drawn 
long  ago.  Here  are  the  lots  on  Main-street,  consisting  of 

four,  which,  together  with  your  house,  are  valued  at  . 

Here  is  the  '  Clifton  Homestead,'  where  your  mother  resides. 
This  is  very  valuable,  and  I  should  advise  you  never  to  part 
with  it.  Then  here  is  a  new  street,  containing  ten  houses 
and  lots,  in  which  your  tenants  reside.  There  are  three 
other  streets,  each  containing  twenty  lots,  and  but  one  house 
upon  the  premises,  given  by  Helen  Clifton  to  her  old  nurse, 
Betty  Brown.  Here  is  the  orchard  lot,  and  lumber  wharf, 


BOSTON    COMMON.  349 

and,  lastly,  here  is  the  old  tannery,  formerly  occupied  and 
carried  on  by  the  late  William  Clifton,  Esq.  A  truly  val 
uable  property,  Mrs.  Hastings,  and  one  that  is  increasing 
daily." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  I  said.  "  Now  please  extend  your  kind 
ness,  and  tell  me  how  much  of  this  property  I  still  possess." 

"  Ah  !  madam,"  he  replied,  "  there  have  been  fearful  inno 
vations  made  by  your  husband  upon  this  estate ;  but,  of 
course,  that  is  none  of  my  concern.  I  will  tell  you,  as  far  as 
I  recollect,  what  part  you  may  still  call  yours,  although  I  am 
very  much  surprised  that  you  have  not  informed  yourself  of 
this  before.  The  old  homestead,  with  its  grounds,  is  still 
yours,  as  is  the  house  you  reside  in.  Thfe  back  streets,  con 
taining  old  Betty's  house,  and  fifty  other  lots,  are  yours 
also." 

He  stopped.     "Well,  sir,"  said  I,  anxiously. 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Hastings,"  he  resumed,  "  that  is  all.  You 
have  disposed  of  the  rest,  you  know." 

My  surprise  and  emotion  cannot  be  expressed,  as  this  man 
of  dollars  and  cents  looked  me  so  calmly  in  the  face,  and  told 
me  "  this  was  all."  Had,  then,  my  fine,  long  street,  with  all 
its  houses  and  tenements,  been  sold  ?  Where  now  were  the 
rents  which  were  to  support  us?  The  lumber- wharf,  also, 
and  the  dear  old  tannery,  where  my  sainted  father  had 
labored  so  long  and  honorably,  —  had  all  these  gone,  like 
wise  ?  What  were  we  now  to  do  ?  how  endure  our  altered 
fortunes  ? 

I  remembered,  in  a  few  moments,  that  the  cold  eye  of  Mr. 
Simpson  was  upon  me,  and,  calling  all  my  pride  to  my  aid, 
said, 

30 


350  BOSTON     COMMON. 

"Fifty  lots,  the  homestead,  and  my  own  house,  are  then 
left  me,  sir,  you  say  ?  " 

"  Yes,  madam,  they  are  yours  if  you  choose  to  keep  them. 
They  are  in  your  own  power,  certainly." 

"What  mean  you,  sir?"  said  I,  tremblingly;  "is  there 
anything  further  that  I  do  not  know  of?  " 

"  Yes,  madam,"  continued  this  smooth-tongued  gentleman ; 
"you  surely  know  —  you  are  aware  of — " 

"  I  am  aware  of  nothing,  I  know  nothing,  sir,  of  what  you 
can  mean.  Pray,  proceed." 

"  Well,  then,  Mrs.  Hastings,  you  surely  know  that  you 
married  before  you  were  of  age,  and  that,  for  some  reason 
unknown  to  me,  your  mother's  legacy,  which  your  honored 
father,  William  Clifton,  Esq.,  bequeathed  to  her,  was  never 
divided,  but  left  with  your  own,  for  safe  keeping;  and,  as 
your  mother  supposed  that  you  would  deal  honestly  and  truly 
with  her,  and  not  particularly  needing  it,  the  division  was 
deferred,  from  time  to  time.  As  your  property  is  now  more 
than  two  thirds  gone,  why,  it  will  take  more  than  half  the 
remaining  third  to  pay  her." 

What  an  awakening  was  this,  for  one  who  so  ardently  loved 
her  mother !  and  what  a  load  of  misery  did  that  man's  cruel 
words,  although  smoothed  with  the  oil  of  politeness,  convey 
to  my  heart !  I  sat  quite  silent  for  a  few  moments,  and  the 
thought  arose  to  my  mind  that  it  would  be  better  for  me  to 
die  than  to  live  under  such  circumstances.  Poverty,  indeed, 
with  all  its  horrors,  now  stared  me  in  the  face.  My  own 
brilliant  fortune  was  gone,  and  my  husband,  child,  and  myself, 
were  beggars ! 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  I,  at  length,  looking  into  the  face  of  the 


BOSTON     COMMON.  351 

usurer  with  anguish  untold,  "  and  how  much  will  be  left  me, 
after  paying  my  mother  her  part?  " 

"  I  was  thinking,  my  dear  madam,"  he  replied,  "  of  another 
plan  for  you.  In  consideration  of  your  youth,  and  ignorance 
concerning  business  matters,  I  will  consent  to  withdraw  my 
foreclosure  for  another  year ;  and  if  you  will  pay  me  fifteen 
per  cent.,  wilHake  a  mortgage  of  the  dwelling-house  in  which 
you  live,  for  security.  This  I  will  make  light,  so  that  if  you 
fail  to  pay  the  former  mortgage  you  will  surely  be  able  to 
pay  this,  by  disposing  to  customers  of  some  of  the  back 
street-lots,  which  I  will  assist  you  to  do.  What  say  you 
to  this,  madam  ?  Does  this  plan  meet  with  your  approba 
tion  ?  " 

I  started,  as  if  from  a  dream.  Was  this  man,  then,  a  con 
summate  scoundrel,  or  a  human  demon,  sent  to  rob  me  of  the 
little  I  had  ?  I  understood  his  meaning  at  once ;  and,  tell 
ing  him  coldly  that  I  had  had  enough  of  mortgages  and  loans, 
desired  him  to  answer  my  first  question. 

He  was  evidently  disconcerted,  and  felt  himself  defeated 
where  he  had  least  expected  it.  His  eyes  glittered  with  rage 
for  a  moment,  and  he  was  upon  the  point  of  forgetting  him 
self,  by  using  an  angry  exclamation,  when  he  recollected  him 
self  just  in  time,  and  said,  in  his  blandest  tones, 

"  I  am  sorry  to  inform  you,  Mrs.  Hastings,  that  if  you 
were  strictly  to  follow  the  dictates  of  your  conscience,  —  that 
is,  give  right  where  right  is  due,  —  it  would  take  nearly  all 
you  possess  in  the  world  to  pay  your  mother's  debt,  and  a  few 
others  of  the  same  kind." 

"  What  mean  you,  sir,  by  a  few  others  of  the  same  kind  ?  " 
said  I. 


352  BOSTON    COMMON. 

"Your  husband's  debts,  madam,  which  you,  as  an  honora 
ble  woman,  are  in  duty  bound  to  pay." 

"  And  pray,  sir,  may  I  ask,  what  right  have  I  to  cancel 
my  husband's  debts  ?  " 

"  I  have  always  supposed,  Mrs.  Hastings,  that  you  and 
your  husband  were  one ;  indeed,  your  devotion  to  him  has 
been  the  talk  of  the  whole  neighborhood  around.  It  was  very 
rare,  as  well  as  refreshing,  to  look  upon  the  devotion  that 
could  deprive  itself  of  house  and  home,  could  encounter  pov 
erty  and  affliction,  could  endure  drunkenness  and  dissipation, 
for  love  —  all  for  love  ;  and  now,  madam,  is  it  to  be  won 
dered  at,  if  you  should  step  forward,  and  wipe  out  all  debts 
against  your  husband's  fair  name  ?  " 

Indignation  at  the  man's  audacity  kept  me  silent  for  a  few 
moments.  Seeing  this,  he  continued. 

"  If  you  are  still  tenacious,  Mrs.  Hastings,  of  keeping  your 
property  in  your  own  hands,  you  can  satisfy  your  mother 
with  a  little  of  hers.  She  would  never  distress  you,  perhaps 
never  mention  it  to  you,  and  then  you  could  satisfy  your  heart 
by  doing  all  in  your  power  for  your  husband.  You  can  pay 
his  debts,  restore  him  to  peace  and  happiness  once  more,  keep 
a  snug  little  property  for  yourself  and  children,  and  still  have 
it  in  your  power  to  give  your  husband  as  much  spending- 
money  as  he"  wishes." 

"  Sir,"  said  I,  "  enough  of  this !  I  did  not  come  here  for 
advice.  I  only  came  for  information,  and  also  to  ascertain 
how  far  your  love  of  gain  would  carry  you.  I  have  discov 
ered  what  I  desired,  sir,  and  now  I  beg  leave  to  wish  you  a 
very  good  morning." 

"  Stay,  madam,"  said  he,  again  disconcerted ;  "  your  hus- 


BOSTON     COMMON.  353 

band  owes  me  one  hundred  dollars,  which  he  borrowed  of  me 
nearly  three  weeks  ago.  I  should  not  have  lent  it  to  him, 
had  he  not  promised  that  you  would  pay  it  me  again.  Will 
you  make  his  word  null  and  void  ?  Will  you  cover  your  hus 
band's  name  with  disgrace,  merely  for  the  sake  of  a  paltry 
hundred  dollars?" 

I  looked  him  sternly  in  the  face  for  a  moment,  an}  was 
even  glad  to  find  that  he  had  the  grace  to  quail  beneath  that 
look.  "Know,  sir,"  said  I,  "that  I  would  starve,  beg,  die, 
rather  than  wrong  my  dear  mother  out  of  a  single  dollar  of 
her  legacy ;  that  my  first  duty  shall  be  to  see  her  reinstated 
in  her  rights,  if  it  ruins  me,  and  takes  the  last  morsel  from 
my  mouth.  But  as  lor  you,  and  your  money,  which  you  lent 
my  husband  to  draw  him  still  further  into  ruin  and  disgrace, 
and  which  he  promised  I  should  pay,  seek  it  where  you  can, 
get  it  if  you  can,  and  use  it  as  you  please.  I  will  never  pay 
one  cent  of  it.  You  have  my  word  for  that,  which  you  may 
always  regard  to  be  as  good  as  gold !  " 

I  paused  not  to  hear  his  reply ;  but,  shutting  the  door,  de 
scended  the  stairs.  I  passed  quickly  up  Main-street,  and  soon 
came  in  sight  of  the  beautiful  white  cottage  of  Mr.  Merton, 
Kate's  father.  I  entered  the  little  gate,  passed  up  the  walk 
bordered  by  roses  on  each  side,  and  was  met  by  an  affection 
ate  embrace  from  Katie  herself,  who  stood  on  the  door-step  to 
receive  me. 

30* 


CHAPTER    XXXIV. 


Mournful  is  the  tale, 


Which  ye  so  fain  would  know." 

HERMIT  OF  WARKWORTH. 

"  GOOD-MOENING,  dear  Nellie,"  said  she ;  "  come  with  me." 

She  led  me  to  the  cool  parlor,  took  no^oticc  of  my  paleness 
and  evident  grief,  seated  me  in  a  soft  easy-chair,  and  began 
chatting  pleasantly  about  some  little  thing  that  had  occurred. 

"  Katherme,"  said  I,  earnestly,  "  I  have  something  to  say 
to  you  this  morning." 

"  I  know  it,  my  dear,"  she  answered,  blushing,  "  but  never 
mind  now ;  let 's  speak  of  something  else.  Do  you  know, 
Nellie,  that  I  think  you  exactly  resemble,  this  morning,  that 
portrait  of  Ernest  Richmond  which  hangs  in  your  mother's 
parlor  ?  The  eyes  are  precisely  the  same ;  the  mouth  and 
brow  —  " 

"  Never  mind  the  mouth  and  brow,  Katie,  but  listen  to 
me,"  said  I.  "  I  have  come  to  have  a  long  talk  with  you  ; 
and  I  wish  you  to  tell  me  a  great  many  things,  which  I  do 
not  perfectly  understand." 

She  looked  at  me  with  a  troubled  expression.  "  I  allude, 
Katherine,"  I  continued,  "  to  my  husband  !  " 

She  started,  and  an  expression  of  pain  flitted  over  her  feat 
ures. 


BOSTON     COMMON.  355 

"  Well,  Helen,"  said  she,  "  your  husband,  I  think  you  said. 
What  of  him?" 

"  Yes,  Katherine,  my  husband.  I  have  never  before  spoken 
one  word  of  my  husband's  habits,  save  to  my  mother.  I  am 
calm,  as  you  perceive,  dear  Kate ;  and  I  trust  it  is  not  a 
forced  calmness  that  I  feel." 

"  O,  I  am  so  glad  to  hear  you  speak  thus,  dearest  Helen  ! " 
said  Kate.  "  I  was  afraid  his  conduct  would  kill  you ;  but  I 
am  now  relieved." 

"  Well,  Katherine,"  I  went  on  to  say,  "I  never  knew  one 
word  of  this  until  yesterday  afternoon.  I  was  then  informed 
by  my  mother  that  I  was  living  under  the  same  roof  with  a 
drunkard  and  gambler !  that  I  had  given  my  heart,  hand, 
fortune,  and  all,  to  a  man  who  had  scorned  my  love,  deserted 
me  for  base  associates,  and,  by  deep  deception,  had  defrauded 
me  out  of  nearly  all  my  property.  Now,  Katherine,  you 
perceive  that  I  am  calm,  quite  calm,  and  I  wish  you  to  tell 
me  all  you  know  of  his  derelictions  from  duty, —  of  his  drink 
ing  and  gambling,  &c.,: — when  it  commenced,  and  how  far  it 
has  proceeded.  Keep  nothing  back  from  me,  but  tell  me  the 
worst.  I  can  bear  anything  now." 

"  My  poor  Helen,"  said  Kate,  sobbing,  "  I  will  tell  you 
what  I  know ;  but  I  always  supposed  that  you  were  aware  of 
it  all.  Living,  as  you  have  done,  under  the  same  roof  with 
him,  I  do  not  see  how  it  was  possible  for  you  to  remain  in 
ignorance  of  what  was  so  very  visible  to  every  one  else." 

"  I  own,  Katherine,  to  my  blindness ;  but  you  must  remem 
ber  that  my  whole  heart  was  wrapped  up  in  my  husband ; 
that  I  loved,  honored,  and  revered  him  ;  and  that  the  idea  of 
his  dissipated  habits  never  for  a  moment  crossed  my  mind.  I 


356  BOSTON     COMMON. 

should  probably  never  have  known  it,  had  not  my  mother 
informed  me  of  it." 

"  Helen,"  said  Kate,  "  I  should  most  certainly  have  told 
you  of  this  long  ago,  had  I  supposed  you  were  in  ignorance 
of  it ;  for  no  false  sense  of  delicacy  would  have  prevented 
me  from  opening  your  eyes  to  your  danger,  I  assure,  you.  I 
will  tell  you  what  I  know  of  your  husband. 

"  Long  before  he  married  you,  I  had  read  and  judged  his 
character,  and  I  determined  that  I  would  step  in  and  save 
my  friend,  if  possible.  I  saw  that  he  was  very  beautiful  and 
fascinating,  and  that  in  consequence  of  this  he  had  many 
admirers  and  flatterers.  He  possessed  a  weak,  vascillating 
mind,  and  a  proneness  to  yield  to  whatever  his  companions 
said  was  right,  without  judging  for  himself.  By  flattery  he 
could  be  beguiled  into  almost  any  evil,  and  thus  become  a 
fitting  mark  for  the  artful  and  wary.  '  This  man,'  thought 
I,  '  is  not  the  one  for  Helen  Clifton,  with  her  large  fortune 
and  singular  disposition,  to  marry.  She  must  be  united  to  a 
man  whom  she  can  esteem  and  reverence,  and  love  will  be 
sure  to  follow ;  to  a  man  who  will  understand  perfectly  how 
to  govern  both  her  and  her  large  fortune,  and  who  will  not 
spend  or  waste  it  in  any  manner  which  will  injure  either  her 
or  himself.' 

"  Full  of  these  thoughts,  dear  Helen,  I  sought  a  few  mo 
ments'  private  conversation  with  you,  if  you  recollect,  at  a 
public  ball  you  attended  with  lloland,  while  you  were  at  St. 
Thomas'  Glen.  I  saw,  however,  with  pain,  that  I  made  but 
little  impression  upon  you;  that  your  mind  was  evidently 
fixed  upon  him,  and  that  it  was  anguish  to  you  to  hear  him 
ill-spoken  of.  You  departed  with  him,  and  I  returned  home, 


BOSTON    COMMON.  357 

expecting  and  fearing  that  the  next  news  I  heard  you  would 
be  engaged.  Imagine,  then,  my  joy,  when  I  learned  that 
Roland  and  Mary  Listen  had  resolved  to  become  one.  I 
pitied  your  love,  but  contented  myself  with  thinking  that  you 
had  seen  at  last  through  Roland's  shallow  character,  and 
had  judged  it  best  to  give  him  up. 

"  You  returned  from  the  '  Glen,'  Helen,  and,  in  looking 
upon  your  pensive  features,  I  sadly  pitied  and  admired  you, 
—  pitied  you  for  loving  an  unworthy  object,  and  admired 
you  for  having  the  strength  of  mind  to  abandon  that  object. 

"  That  little  mountain  scene,  which  you  no  doubt  remem 
ber,  increased  my  love  for  you,  and  sorrow  for  your  grief.  I 
was  vexed  that  it  occurred,  and,  in  view  of  this,  was  really 
glad  that  you  were  about  to  leave  home,  even  for  so  long  a 
time ;  for  I  could  not  endure  to  see  you  pining  and  suffering 
over  the  unfortunate  attachment  you  had  formed  for  Roland, 
and  I  hoped  that  new  scenes  and  characters,  together  with 
your  extreme  youth,  would  quite  obliterate  him  from  your 
mind. 

"  Well,  Helen,  you  departed,  and,  from  your  letters,  I  dis 
cerned  that  you  were  calm,  and  sometimes  I  even  fancied 
happy.  Still  I  could  perceive  a.  vein  of  sadness  running 
through  your  compositions,  although  you  strove  to  make 
them  appear  as  cheerful  as  possible.  I  soon  learned  that 
you  were  engaged  to  be  married  to  your  cousin  Ernest.  I 
was  now  happy ;  for  I  felt  sure,  from  his  character,  habits, 
&c.,  that  you  had  secured  just  the  man,  and  that  in  his  love 
and  protection  your  happiness  and  fortune  would  be  safe. 

"  Suddenly  it  was  rumored  that  the  engagement  between 
Roland  and  Mary  was  broken  off,  and  that  it  was  in 


358  BOSTON     COMMON. 

consequence  of  a  quarrel  concerning  you.  I  was  sorry 
enough  to  hear  this,  for  I  longed  to  have  them  married 
quietly  out  of  harm's  way.  Well,  time  went  on,  and  Ro 
land  left  the  town.  I  knew  not  where  he  was,  but  feared  he 
had  gone  in  search  of  you.  You  never  mentioned  him,  how 
ever,  but  continued  to  dwell  upon  Ernest  wit^i  respect  and 
affection ;  and  I,  of  course,  said  nothing  to  you  concerning 
Mary  and  her  whilom  lover.  The  former  grew  sick,  however, 
and  pined  herself  to  death  for  Roland,  so  people  said.  While 
she  was  on  her  dying  bed,  he  was  hunted  from  his  retreat,  and 
arrived  just  in  time  to  pardon  her,  and  to  close  her  eyes. 
He  behaved  very  well  upon  the  occasion,  and  everybody  said 
that  he  acted  quite  the  gentleman.  I  should  have  thought 
him  a  strange  being,  indeed,  if,  after  killing  poor  Mary,  he 
could  not  have  been  decent  at  her  burial. 

"  After  the  funeral,  Roland  departed  once  more,  and  things 
went  on  quietly  as  before  ;  but  imagine  my 'surprise  and  re 
gret,  when  it  was  suddenly  announced  that  Roland  Hastings 
and  Helen  Clifton  were  coming  home  to  Linden  to  be  mar 
ried,  and  that  Ernest  Richmond  had  departed  for  Europe! 
Mrs.  Weston,  your  mother,  told  me  of  this,  and  requested 
that  I  would  not  say  a  word  to  you  against  Roland.  '  Poor 
Nellie,'  said  she,  '  has  suffered  a  deal  from  Ernest's  tyranny 
and  coldness,  and  he  himself  has  written  us  a  letter  saying 
that  he  has  given  her  up,  and  that  we  must  all  treat  Roland 
kindly.' 

"  Well,  Nellie,  I  pass  over  my  own  feelings,  and  hasten  to 
the  time  when  you  returned.  I  saw  that  you  were  happy, 
perfectly  so;  and  I  only  prayed  that  this  happiness  might  be 
enduring.  I,  however,  resolved  that  this  unlooked-for  mar- 


BOSTON     COMMON.  359 

riage  should  never  receive  a  sanctioning  word  from  me.  So 
I  said  nothing  in  Roland's  favor,  and  even  absented  myself 
from  you  in  your  bridal  hour.  I  could  not  endure  to  see  my 
darling  friend  throwing  herself  away  in  such  a  manner. 

"  I  went  out  of  town,  and  when  I  returned  all  Linden 
were  going  mad  over  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hastings.  I  could  hear 
of  nothing  but  the  noble  grace  and  rnanly^  beauty  of  the 
bridegroom,  the  loveliness  of  the  bride,  the  wedding  dresses, 
presents,  &c.  I  called  upon  you,  Helen,  and  found  you  per 
fectly  happy,  perfectly  blest,  as  you  said.  You  could  think 
of  nothing,  speak  of  nothing,  but  Roland  ;  and  when  I  went 
away  I  had  imbibed  some  of  your  own  cheerful  spirit,  and 
hoped  that  he  might  yet  be  won  to  be  a  man.  He  was  all 
affection,  all  kindness,  for  a  while ;  scarcely  ever  left  your 
side  for  an  hour  at  a  time,  and  your  devotion  to  each  other 
was  proverbial.  You  were  called  the  happy  couple  where- 
ever  you  went ;  and  Roland,  from  his  extreme  beauty,  and  a 
certain  charm  in  his  conversation,  which  even  I  myself  have 
felt  and  acknowledged,  soon  became  the  idol  of  his  circle. 
Moving,  as  he  now  did,  in  quite  a  different  sphere  from  that 
to  which  he  had  been  accustomed,  he  of  course  had  many 
expenses  to  meet  which  he  had  not  provided  for. 

"A  certain  set  of  genteel  villains  in  the  village  soon  fast 
ened  their  greedy  eyes  upon  him,  and,  as  he  was  considered 
an  easy  prey,  they  did  not  despair,  notwithstanding  his  new 
connections,  of  soon  making  him  their  complete  tool.  They 
accordingly  praised  his  beauty,  told  him  that  it  had  procured 
for  him  the  wealthiest  wife  in  Linden,  and  that  he  was  a 
man  of  great  importance,  and  occupied,  by  his  fine  estate  and 


360  BOSTON    COMMON. 

connections,  an  exceedingly  high  position  in  the  fashionable 
world,  &o. 

"  Had  Roland  possessed  any  strength  of  mind,  Helen,  he 
would  have  resisted  their  wiles,  for  I  think,  at  that  time,  he 
really  loved  you ;  but  he  was  not  proof  against  their  tempta 
tions,  and  he  fell.  He  was  first  induced  to  drink,  then  to 
play  lightly,  and  attend  the  suppers  which  his  new  friends 
prepared  for  him.  Of  course  he  always  had  to  foot  the  bills ; 
for  how  could  he  endure  to  have  it  said  to  him,  '  Hastings, 
you  are  the  biggest  man  of  us  all ;  we  are  as  nothing  com 
pared  to  you, — you  alwaya  have  the  ready,  and  a  plenty  of 
it '  ?  And  so  he  invariably  paid  the  bills. 

"  He  soon  began  to  lose  all  interest  for  his  wife  and  home ; 
began  to  love  the  intoxicating  cup ;  began  to  be  more  fre 
quently  absent  from  home,  and  to  play  for  money.  He 
knew  nothing  about  play,  and  of  course  he  lost ;  and  as 
they  told  him  never  to  despair,  but  to  try  again,  excited  by 
his  losses,  mixed  now  and  then  with  a  little  gain,  he  did  try 
again,  and  again  lost. 

"  Not  finding  the  resources  which  you  so  bountifully 
lavished  upon  him  sufficient  to  meet  these  heavy  losses,  he 
hit  upon  an  expedient,  which  was  nothing  more  nor  less  than 
to  deprive  you  of  a  third  part  of  your  estate,  which  he 
devoted  to  the  purposes  of  gambling.  Soon  after  this,  he 
paid  his  debts,  and  contracted  another  much  heavier  than  the 
former,  for  which  his  kind  friends  threatened  to  imprison 
him,  if  not  paid  immediately.  The  fear  of  this,  together 
with  exposure  and  late  hours,  threw  him  into  a  malignant 
fever.  Then,  dearest  Helen,  did  you  show  the  beauty  and 
strength  of  your  devotion  for  him.  You  sat,  watched,  and 


BOSTON     COMMON.  361 

prayed,  by  his  couch,  for  days  and  weeks  together,  and  almost 
kissed  him  back  to  life  and  health  once  more  ! 

"  He  lived ;  but  his  illness  nearly  deprived  you  of  existence ; 
for,  worn  down  by  mental  anxiety  and  suffering,  you  yourself 
were  laid  upon  that  bed  from  which  your  unwavering  devotion 
and  love  had  raised  him. 

"  I  was  in  the  house  much  at  this  time,  and  myself  wit 
nessed  the  effects  of  spirituous  liquors  upon  Roland.  He 
was  attentive  and  kind  to  you,  it  is  true;  but  I  was  quite 
certain  that  he  drank,  and  drank  constantly.  He  would  often 
seat  himself  by  your  bedside  and  watch  you  for  hours,  —  that 
was  because  he  was  unable  to  walk.  You,  Helen,  mistook 
this  for  devotion;  and,  rejoicing  in  this  proof  of  Roland's 
restoration  to  your  affection,  you  arose  oiSce  more  from  your 
sick  bed. 

"A  journey  to  Saratoga  was  now  proposed,  and  I  consented 
to  accompany  you,  more  to  take  care  of  you  than  for  any 
other  purpose ;  for  I  had  lost  all  trust  in  Roland,  and  feared 
that  he  might  do  or  say  something  during  the  journey  which 
might  shock  your  tender  feelings. 

"  I  well  remember  the  night  he  was  absent.  I  was  quite 
surprised  to  witness  your  emotions,  for  I  supposed  that  you 
were  used  to  his  ramblings,  and  need  not  mind  this ;  and 
when  at  last  he  entered  the  room  intoxicated,  I  felt  so  badly 
on  your  account,  that  I  immediately  left  for  my  own  chamber, 
where  I  vented  my  indignation  towards  him,  and  sorrow  for 
you,  in  a  violent  shower  of  tears. 

"  I  was  surprised  to  see  you  watching  so  patiently,  the  next 
morning,  by  that  drunken  man's  couch ;  and  provoked  that 
you  looked  at  me  and  asked  so  innocently  if  I  supposed  he 
31 


362  BOSTON     COMMON. 

was  ill.  I  thought  you  might  have  had  more  confidence  in 
an  old  friend  than  that ;  but,  always  ready  to  excuse  you,  for 
the  love  I  bore  you,  I  did  so  on  this  occasion. 

"  Well,  Nellie,  we  returned  home,  and  I  was  still  more 
surprised  to  see  you  so  cheerful,  so  happy,  all  the  way.  You 
looked  and  acted  like  sweet  sixteen ;  and  I  wondered  if  I 
should  be  so  content,  with  a  drunken  husband  at  my  side, 
were  I  in  your  place.  After  we  returned,  Roland  continued 
to  drink,  gamble,  and  to  spend  his  evenings  abroad,  in  the 
society  of  his  vile  companions. 

"  Time  went  on,  and  with  his  old  quietness ;  but  the  whole 
town  was  suddenly  aroused  by  the  astounding  news  that 
Helen  Hastings  had  again  parted  with  a  large  portion  of  her 
estate,  and  that  this  time  it  was  no  mortgage,  but  a  real 
sale! 

"  '  What  can  Helen  want  with  so  'much  money  ? '  said  this 
one  ;  and  '  What  could  induce  her  to  part  with  her  street  of 
houses,  and  her  father's  place  of  business  ? '  said  that  one. 
Some  conjectured  one  thing,  some  another ;  but  at  length 
the  real  facts  came  to  be  known,  and  circulated  freely.  Peo 
ple  now  said  that  it  was  on  your  husband's  account,  —  that 
he  had  pleaded  trouble  and  embarrassments,  and  that  you  had 
signed  away  nearly  all  your  heritage,  to  bring  back  peace  to 

his  mind. 

« 

" '  What  a  sacrifice  to  love  and  devotion  ! '  said  one  ;  and 
'  Was  the  like  ever  known  ? '  said  another.  '  What  a  simple 
ton  ! '  said  I,  '  and  what  a  piece  of  wilful  wickedness  for 
Helen  thus  by  every  means  in  her  power  to  urge  her  hus 
band  on  in  his  career  of  ruin  and  wickedness,  and  likewise 
to  impoverish  herself  by  the  same  act ! '  I  now  determined 


BOSTON     COMMON.  363 

to  talk  with  you,  Helen,  concerning  your  folly,  and  made  up  my 
mind  to  have  a  real  quarrel  about  it.  It  would  have  been 
the  first  one,  however,  Nell;  but  I  thought  the  occasion  justi 
fied  the  means.  I  was  again  stopped  by  your  mother.  She 
called  upon  me  soon  after,  and  we  had  a  long  conversation 
concerning  you.  She  deplored  your  misfortunes,  with  tears; 
and  we  both  came  to  the  conclusion  that,  as  you  were  in 
rather  a  critical  situation,  and  had  but  recently  recovered 
from  a  dangerous  illness,  it  would  be  better  not  to  mention 
this  at  present.  Your  mother  said  that  you  already  suffered, 
from  your  husband's  conduct,  all  that  you  could  possibly 
endure ;  and  that  it  might,  perhaps,  be  fatal  to  have  a  third 
person  interfere. 

"  Your  mother  was  quite  right,  Nellie  ;  for  you  were  soon 
after  brought  down  again,  by  sickness,  to  your  bed;  and, 
after  many  weeks  of  mental  and  bodily  suffering,  our  darling 
little  Willie  was  born.  How  very  sad  I  felt  when  I  gazed 
upon  that  sweet  child's  face,  and  remembered  what  his  father 
was !  I  was  again  much  surprised  that  you  felt  so  happy 
over  the  birth  of  this  child,  and  talked  so  hopefully  concern 
ing  it.  I  often  heard  you  talking  to  Roland,  and  telliug  him 
how  you  would  both  educate  and  bring  him  up;  how  you 
would  both  teach  him  to  be  wise,  temperate,  &c. ;  and  I 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  you  were  either  a  little  out  of 
your  mind,  or  that  in  your  exceeding  love  for  your  husband 
his  conduct  was  excused. 

"  Well,  dear  Nellie,  my  sad  tale  is"  nearly  done.  Roland, 
after  confining  himself  to  your  chamber  for  several  weeks, 
again  left  your  side,  and  plunged  into  all  sorts  of  excesses. 
He  now  drank  and  gambled  quite  openly.  People  talked  of 


364  BOSTON     COMMON. 

his  intemperance,  and  some  pitied  while  others  blamed  you 
for  thus  looking  so  unconcernedly  upon  your  husband's  ruin. 

"A  change  had  now  taken  place  in  Roland's  appearance. 
The  eyes  had  grown  dim  and  blood-shot,  the  brow  contracted, 
and  the  face  red  and  bloated.  Every  one  noticed  his  loss  of 
beauty,  and  commented  upon  it :  but  it  did  no  good.  You 
were  as  happy  as  a  bird,  with  your  babe,  and  your  husband 
pursued  his  own  inclinations  at  will.  He  has  spent  the  large 
sum  of  money  you  last  lavished  upon  him,  besides  contracting 
a  number  of  debts,  under  pretext  of  your  paying  them.  He 
does  not  stand  so  high  as  formerly  in  his  companions'  favor, 
not  having  quite  as  much  money  to  spend  with  them.  They 
sometimes  pass  him  with  scarcely  a  recognition ;  and  will 
probably  soon  hand  him  over  to  a  second  class  of  drunkards, 
who,  although  not  quite  so  expensive,  will  tend  to  degrade 
him  still  more." 

Katherine  ceased ;  and,  leaning  her  head  against  the  chair 
in  which  I  sat,  looked  kindly  into  my  eyes,  as  if  seeking  to 
throw  some  amelioration  upon  my  grief.  Alas  !  what  ame 
lioration  could  she  bring  to  my  poor,  breaking  heart  ? 

"  0,  Katherine  !  what  can  I,  what  shall  I  do  ?  "  was  my 
only  remark,  as  I  stretched  out  my. hand  imploringly  towards 
her;  " can  you  devise  no  means  to  soften  this  evil ?  " 

"  I  know  not,  Helen,"  replied  Kate ;  "  you  must  return 
home,  treat  your  husband  kindly  as  your  disgust  at  his 
conduct  will  allow,  and  save  the  wreck  of  your  property,  if 
you  can.  Do  your  duty  faithfully,  and  leave  the  rest  to  God. 
He  will  yet  bring  it  out  aright ;  and,  if  you  trust  in  him, 
he  will  certainly  care  for  you.  Although  he  has  sent  you 
this  heavy  affliction,  he  means  it  for  your  good.  He  wishes 


BOSTON     COMMON.  365 

to  draw  you  more  closely  to  him  ;  to  rivet  the  bands  of  love 
and  devotion  you  feel  for  him  more  firmly  around  your 
heart,  —  which  might  otherwise  grow  cold,  lifeless,  and  forget 
its  duty  as  a  Christian. 

"  You  are  disappointed  in  your  husband,  Helen.  He,  who 
should  have  been  your  crown  of  rejoicing,  is  now  become  your 
greatest  curse  and  disgrace  !  You  are  in  a  dark  and  thorny 
way ;  but  you  still  have  your  child  to  provide  for,  to  educate, 
and  bring  up.  See  that  you  fail  not  in  this,  for  he  will 
probably  be  your  greatest  earthty  consolation.  You  will,  if 
faithful  in  this  respect,  find  that  peace  of  mind  which  the 
world  can  neither  give  nor  take  away." 

I  arose.  "  Now,  Katie,"  said  I,  "  I  must  go.  Kiss  me, 
dear,  and  come  and  see  me  soon.  I  believe  Willie  knows 
you  already ;  for,  when  I  tell  him  of '  aunt  Katie,'  he  laughs 
and  holds  out  his  little  hands." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  that  he  does,"  replied  she.  "  I  will  come 
soon  and  often.  Now,  good-by,  Helen,  and  may  Heaven  bless 
and  console  you." 

31* 


CHAPTER    XXXV. 

"  The  time  of  life  is  short ; 
To  spend  that  shortness  basely,  were  too  long, 
If  life  did  ride  upon  a  dial's  point, 
Still  ending  at  the  arrival  of  an  hour." 

KING  HENRY  IV.  ' 

WHEN  I  reached  home  my  husband  had  not  yet  awakened 
from  his  slumbers.  I  seated  myself  by  the  bed,  and  looked 
earnestly  into  his  face.  The  curtains  were  drawn,  and  a 
softened  light  rested  in  the  room.  He  lay  there  so  calmly 
sleeping,  and  looking  so  fair  in  the  dim  light,  that  I  fancied 
it  was  as  in  the  olden  time  with  us.  I  reviewed  my  past  life. 
I  recalled  those  happy  days  we  had  spent  upon  the  beautiful 
Common  ;  when,  hand  in  hand,  we  had  wandered  beneath  the 
shady  trees,  and  linked  our  future  with  golden  fancies ;  when 
the  sky,  the  earth,  the  trees,  and  flowers,  were  viewed  by  us 
as  only  so  many  fresh  delights  to  minister  to  our  happiness, 
and  to  bind  us  more  closely  to  each  other. 

I  thought  of  the  time  when  we  returned  to  Linden ;  when 
our  summer  passed  so  swiftly  away  ;  when  each  moment  im 
printed  its  fairy  footsteps  upon  some  sweet  flower,  and  pressed 
the  cup  of  joy  still  nearer  to  our  lips. 

And  then  came  the  merry  wedding-day,  and  the  honey- 


BOSTON     COMMON.  367 

moon.  We  were  too  joyous  for  words  ;  and  so  we  would  sit 
for  hours,  drinking  in  our  happiness  in  silence,  and  dreaming 
of  sweeter  days  to  come. 

How  vividly  did  the  first  evening  which  we  spent  together 
in  our  own  house  now  arise  in  my  mind  !  How  brightly 
glowed  the  fire ;  how  soft  and  velvety  looked  the  carpet ; 
how  dreamy  was  the  light  reflected  from  our  lamp ;  how  did 
all  things,  even  the  steaming  urn,  seem  to  welcome  us,  with 
its  lulling  music,  to  our  own  happy  home !  I  remembered 
what  I  had  then  said. 

"  0,  Roland  !  we  will  be  so  very  joyous  here,  in  this  beau 
tiful  place,  that  we  shall  never  wish  to  stray  therefrom. 
Content  shall  lurk  in  every  nook  and  corner  of  our  sweet 
dwelling;  love  shall  forever  dream  among  the  roses,  and  all 
shall  be  bright  and  blooming  as  now." 

And  he  had  answered,  by  looking  into  my  eyes,  — 

"  Helen,  never  did  I  know  or  dream  what  happiness  was, 
until  I  saw  and  loved  you,  and  was  beloved  by  you  in  re 
turn." 

And  the  sweet  memory  of  that  too  blessed  summer,  —  the 
golden  mornings,  when,  awaking  from  slumber,  I  would  seek 
for  the  sunshine  of  Roland's  smile;  and  the  live-long  day,  when 
the  birds  would  come  and  build  their  nests  in  the  boughs, 
while  the  bees  and  insects  hummed  their  drowsy  notes,  and 
the  flowers  blossomed  and  glowed  in  our  sunshine. 

And  then  our  first  boy,  —  our  disappointment  in  its  death, 
and  Roland's  fearful  sickness.  Months  passed  away ;  and, 
although  sorrow  crept  into  my  heart,  yet  he  laid  his  wither 
ing  hand  but  lightly  there.  It  was  but  a  soft  shower  of  rain 
upon  the  ripe  grass,  or  the  sun  hiding  his  head  behind  a 


368  BOSTON     COMMON. 

cloud ;  it  passed  over,  and  I  was  still  happy,  still  blest,  in 
Roland's  affection.  ;  ,K 

And  so  I  continued  to  live  and  dream  of  my  idol,  to  pour 
the  wealth  of  my  heart's  love  upon  him,  until  our  'darling 
Willie  was  born.  My  cup  of  joy  was  now  full  —  my  happi 
ness  complete.  Willie  had  the  same  blue  eyes,  the  same  fair 
brow ;  his  mouth  had  the  same  delicate  chiselling,  and  the 
soft  curls  that  floated  around  the  temples  had  the  same 
bright  hue. 

A  few  happy  days  were  mine,  and  then  came  the  blow. 
The  bolt  descended,  and  smote  my  defenceless  head ;  but,  0, 
how  unprepared  was  I  to  receive  it ! 

My  idol  was  crushed,  —  had  fallen,  never  more  to  rise.  I 
now  had  no  hope  or  wish  but  to  die ;  but  I  could  not  die.  I 
must  live,  and  live  to  see  him  groping  his  way  in  this  dark 
world  of  sin  and  crime.  0,  what  could  I,  what  should  I  do  ? 
I  clasped  my  hands  in  utter  prostration  of  spirit,  and  kneeled 
beside  that  bed. 

"0,  Father!"  prayed  I,  "in  mercy  afflict  me.  not  so 
heavily;  take  thy  chastening  hand  from  me;  I  can  bear  no 
more ;  I  must  die." 

Roland  awaked,  and  gazed  at  me.  He  must  have  noticed 
that  a  change  had  taken  place,  for  he  looked  long  and  ear 
nestly  into  my  eyes.  I  spoke  not,  but  gazed  sadly  at  him  in 
return. 

"  Well,  Nellie,  have  you  no  kiss  for  me  to-day  ? "  he 
asked. 

I  shook  my  head.     "  None,  Roland,  none,"  I  replied. 

"Whew!  what  is  the  matter  now?  "said  he.  "This  is 
the  first  time,  in  all  our  married  life,  that  you  have  refused  to 
kiss  me.  What  has  come  over  you  ?  —  are  you  sad,  or  ill  ?  " 


BOSTON     COMMON.  369 

"  Yes,  Roland,"  I  replied,  "  I  am  sick ;  but  come,  arise ; 
your  Breakfast  is  ready,  I  think." 

Jenny  had  become  accustomed  to  her  master's  tardiness, 
and  always  contrived  to  have  the  coffee  hot  for  him.  We 
proceeded  to  the  dining-room,  and  I  myself  gave  him  his 
breakfast.  That  over,  he  followed  me  to  the  nursery,  where 
he  played  with  Willie  a  while ;  then,  seating  him  upon  the 
carpet,  he  prepared  to  go  out. 

"  Roland,"  said  I,  "  please  sit  down  by  me.  I  wish  to 
talk  with  you." 

He  looked  at  me  a  moment,  as  if  considering.  "  Will  not 
some  other  time  do,  Helen?"  said  he.  "I  have  an  engage 
ment, —  business  calls  me  away." 

"  That  excuse  will  not  now  answer  with  me,  Roland,"  I 
replied.  "  Business  does  not  call  you  away,  and  no  other 
time  will  do  but  the  present." 

"  Well,"  he  replied,  "be  brief;  it  is  getting,  late.  But 
what  mean  you  by  your  singular  -looks  and  words  ?  This  is 
not  the  manner  in  which  you  were  wont  to  address  your  hus 
band,  —  hey,  Nell  ?" 

"  A  change  has  come  over  me,  Roland,  —  a  change  that  I 
would  barter  all  the  riches  of  the  world  to  win  back ;  but  I 
may  not." 

"  A  change  !     What  mean  you,  Helen?  " 

"  I  mean,  Roland,  that  all  my  hopes  of  happiness  have 
forever  fled ;  that  I  have  put  my  trust  in  man  rather  than  in 
God,  where  I  should  have  placed  it ;  and  that  He  has  at 
length  shown  me  the  folly  of  it." 

"  Poh  !  Nell,  you  are  always  talking  of  religion,  or  some 
such  thing,  enough  to  drive  a  man  either  out  of  his  senses 


370  BOSTON     COMMON. 

or  out  of  the  house.  Is  this  all  you  have  to  say  ?  Because, 
if  it  is,  I  must  go." 

"  No,  Roland,  no ;  you  must  stay  and  listen  to  what  I 
have  to  say.  I  have  always  blindly  obeyed  your  will  in  all 
things  ;  now  please  obey  me  in  this.  Roland,  I  have  learned 
all,  know  all.  You  need  not  try  to  deceive  or  keep  me  in 
ignorance  any  longer.  I  know  with  whom  you  associate  ;  I 
know  how  you  fill  your  'veins  with  intoxicating  poison  ;  that 
you  drink  long  and  deep  at  the  wine-cup ;  and  that  you  have 
^squandered  away,  in  idleness  and  dissipation,  more  than  two 
thirds  of  ti&  beautiful  estate  we  once  owned.  I  can  scarcely 
believe  it  possible  that  you  could  accomplish  this  in  so  short 
a  space  of  time ;  but  it  is  true,  nevertheless.  And  now,  Ro 
land,  all  I  have  to  say  is  this  :  you  have  disgraced  your  name 
and  character,  blighted  nearly  all  my  hopes  of  happiness,  and 
broken  my  heart." 

I  did  not  look  at  Roland  while  I  spoke ;  but  I  could  see 
that  he  started  several  times,  and  appeared  very  much  sur 
prised.  He  did  not  speak  for  several  moments  after  I  had 
ceased,  but  at  length  he  said, 

"  Some  persons  have  been  inventing  lies  about  me,  Helen, 
which  I  should  have  supposed  your  love  for  me  would  havo 
prevented  you  from  believing." 

"Add  not  to  your  guilt,  Roland,"  said  I,  "  by  denying 
what  all  the  world  knows,  —  what  I  myself  have,  in  part, 
witnessed.  It  is,  alas!  too  true.  Would  to  God  it  wero 
not  so !  " 

"  And  so,  Mrs.  Helen  Hastings,"  said  he,  "  this  is  the  end 
of  all  your  fine  love,  is  it?  You  are  ready  to  believe  every 
trifling  thing  you  may  chance  to  hear  against  him  whom  you 
have  sworn  to  love,  honor,  and  obey." 


BOSTON     COMMON.  371 

"  Hush,  Roland !  profane  not  the  holy,  truthful  love  I  once 
bore  for  the  person  you  were  by  ever  giving  it  a  title  to 
changeableness !  You  know  very  well  what  Helen  Clifton 
loved,  and  what  she  supposed  she  married." 
*  "  Well,  I  suppose  I  do  ;  but  here  you  are  making  a  great 
time  about  nothing,  —  a  mere  trifle,  —  because,  forsooth,  a 
man  wants  to  enjoy  himself  a  little !  " 

"A  trifle,  Roland !  Do  you  call  sin  a  trifle? — a  trans 
gression  of  God's  holy  laws  a  trifle?  Do  you  call  that  a 
trifle  which  can  wring  the  heart  of  a  loving  wife,  and  change 
the  object  of  her  adoration,  of  her  reverence,  into  an  insen 
sible*  drunkard  ?  Do  you  call  a  large  fortune,  purchased 
with  the  sweat  of  honest  labor,  and  spent  at  the  gambling- 
table,  a  trifle  ?  0  Roland  !  my  husband,  I  would  gladly  en 
dure  poverty  and  suffering ;  I  would,  with  my  infant,  wander 
from  door  to  door,  and  beg  humbly  for  the  crumbs  which 
fell  from  the  rich  man's  table ;  I  would  give  up  all  my 
hopes  of  happiness  in  this  life ;  I  would  smile  at  misery, 
and  welcome  the  grave,  —  to  have  you  innocent  and  pure 
once  more,  to  have  you  living  in  the  love  and  fear  of  God, 
to  see  you  shun  the  gambling-table  and  bar-room  as  pestilen 
tial  dens." 

He  was  somewhat  affected  by  my  earnestness,  but  rallied 
in  a  few  moments,  and  said, 

"  Well,  Nellie,  you  are  right,  I  suppose.  I  sometimes 
think  that  my  life  is  all  a  sad  mistake,  —  that  I  have  been 
living  in  a  foolish,  wicked  way,  as  you  would  call  it ;  but  I 
have  gone  too  far  to  repent.  It  is  now  too  late." 

"  No,  my  husband,"  I  answered,  "  it  is  never  too  late  to 
repent  —  never  too  late  to  return  to  the  paths  of  duty.  0, 


372  BOSTON     COMMON. 

Roland !  dear  Roland !  for  my  sake,  for  the  sake  of  our 
sweet  Willie,  for  the  sake  of  the  blessed  Saviour,  whose  cause 
you  have  wounded,  whose  name  you  have  reproached,  leave 
your  evil  ways  at  once,  and  come.  He  is  ready  and  willing 
—  stands,  even  now,  with  outstretched  arms,  to  receive  yoix 
0,  if  you  will  but  leave  your  vile  associates ;  if  you  will 
but  eschew  the  dark  ways  of  sin  and  iniquity,  in  which  you 
have  so  long  been  wandering ;  if  you  will  but  repent,  and 
turn,  in  heart  and  soul,  to  your  heavenly  Father,  —  we  will 
go  forth  and  together  brave  poverty,  the  world's  scorn,  and 
all,  and  will  yet  be  happy.  0,  Roland !  what  say  you  ?  " 

I  had  arisen,  and  was  gazing  him  earnestly  in  the  face ; 
my  eyes  were  suffused  with  tears,  and  my  cheek  pale  with 
grief.  He  looked  at  me  affectionately. 

"  God  bless  you,  my  noble  Helen !  "  he  said  ;  "  you  have 
conquered.  I  will  try  and  do  as  you  wish.  I  will  leave  my 
companions,  and  never  drink  another  glass.  I  will  work  and 
do  everything  for  or  with  you,  my  own  blessed  wife,  and 
henceforth  you  may  regard  me  as  erring,  but  not  lost." 

I  sank  into  a  chair ;  joy  filled  my  poor  heart ;  a  sensation 
of  pure  happiness  once  more  thrilled  through  my  veins,  and  I 
reached  forth  my  hand  to  Roland,  who  pressed  it  to  his  lips, 
and  went  immediately  out. 

That  night  he  remained  at  home  with  me,  and  the  next 
day  also,  and  for  two  or  three  succeeding  days  and  nights. 


CHAPTER    XXXVI.  'U 

"  Not  the  last  sounding  could  surprise  me  more, 
That  summons  drowsy  mortals  to  their  doom." 

DKYDEN. 

I..  NOW  felt  almost  happy.  I  hung  over  my  husband  with 
joy.  I  combed  his  beautiful  hair.  I  seated  myself  at  his 
feet,  and,  laying  my  head  in  his  lap,  talked  to  him  of  the 
blessings  we  still  possessed  in  our  beautiful  home,  our  noble 
boy,  and  in  our  love  for  each  other.  I  was  afraid  of  say 
ing  a  word  which  might  cause  him  to  repent  the  new  step  he 
had  taken,  and  so  I  never  reverted  to  the  past. 

I  told  him  stories  of  men  who  had  conquered  themselves, 
who  had  learned  to  rule  their  own  spirits,  who  had  struggled 
with  mighty  temptations  and  come  out  victorious.  And  then 
our  conversations  would  revert  to  Willie,  and  we  would 
resolve  to  set  an  example  of  purity  and  goodness  before  our 
child,  to  guard  him  from  evil,  and  to  inculcate  lessons  of  vir 
tue  into  his  heart. 

He  listened  to  all  these  stories,  and  agreed  with  me  con 
cerning  the  child.  I  could  not  have  believed  that  I  should 
have  felt  so  much  consolation.  I  was  surprised  to  find  my 
burden  so  much  lighter,  and  blessed  God  for  his  kindness 

to  me. 

32 


374  BOSTON     COMMON. 

On  the  fourth  evening,  as  we  were  sitting  cosily  together, 
the  door-bell  suddenly  rung.  I  started,  for  I  had  an  instinct 
ive  warning  that  it  was  rung  by  a  person  who  was  in  some 
way  connected  with  my  husband.  I  therefore  determined  to 
answer  it  myself. 

On  going  to  the  door,  I  found  there,  sure  enough,  Albert 
Douglas,  one  of  my  husband's  companions,  and,  indeed,  the 
ringleader  in  the  whole  affair,  as  I  had  been  lately  told. 

u  Good-evening,  Mrs.  Hastings,"  said  he.  "  Is  your  hus 
band  at  home  ?  " 

"  He  is,  sir,"  I  answered,  coldly. 

"  Will  you  please  tell  him  to  step  to  the  door  a  moment  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,"  said  I ;  "  my  husband  has  no  business  with 
you,  or  any  of  your  kind.  He  does  not  wish  to  have  any  fur 
ther  transactions  with  you  or  your  friends ;  and  so  you  need 
not  expect^  to  see  him  again." 

The  man  looked  at  me  in  surprise.  I  gazed  at  him  in 
return,  and  thought,  as  I  did  so,  that  I  was  gazing  at  my 
enemy,  —  at  one  who  had  wronged  me  out  of  my  fortune,  my 
husband's  society,  and  my  happiness,  —  and  I  felt  brave.  A 
moment  we  stood  thus,  gazing  at  each  other  in  mute  defiance  ; 
then,  turning  scornfully  away,  I  shut  the  door  in  his  face,  and 
returned  to  the  parlor. 

Holand  inquired  anxiously  who  the  visitor  was.  I  recounted 
to  him  every  particular  of  the  interview.  He  laughed  and 
called  it  a  capital  joke ;  but  I  could  sec  that  he  felt  a  little 
uneasy  about  it,  nevertheless. 

Before  I  retired  to  rest,  that  night,  I  sought  my  closet,  and 
thanked  God  upon  my  knees  that  he  had  already  eased  my 
heavy  burden;  that  he  had  turned  my  husband's  steps 


BOSTON    COMMON.  375 

into  the  right  path,  and  shown  to  him  the  error  of  his 
ways. 

"  And  now,  0  Father  !  "  I  prayed,  in  conclusion,  "  I  ask 
not  for  riches,  happiness,  or  a  long  life ;  but,  0,  give  me  the 
sweet,  the  heavenly  joy,  of  knowing  that  my  husband  is  saved, 
—  that  he  is  an  heir  of  eternal  life !  Take  everything  of 
worldly  good  from  me,  if  thou  wilt,  but  in  mercy  deny  me  not 
this  precious  boon  !  " 

And,  reader,  that  prayer,  breathed  so  earnestly  in  the  holy 
hour  of  evening,  found  its  way  to  the  throne  of  the  Almighty ; 
and,  blessed  be  His  name,  it  was  granted  me,  —  but  not  then, 
-1—  not  then.  I  was  not  yet  to  see  the  travail  of  my  soul  and 
be  satisfied.  A  few  more  months  of  sorrow  were  yet  in 
reserve  for  me,  and  then  —  but  I  will  not  anticipate. 

Another  happy  day  was  spent  with  Roland ;  and  now, 
almost  assured  of  his  firmness,  I  rejoiced  over  him  exceed- 

ingty- 

Towards  night  a  man  came  to  paper  our  front  entry.  He 
brought  several  rolls  with  him,  and  Roland  and  myself 
watched  him  for  a  long  time  with  considerable  interest. 

"  Ah  !  "  exclaimed  he,  suddenly,  "  I  shall  not  have  paper 
enough,  after  all ;  and  I  must  finish  this  entry  to-night,  for  I 
have  other  jobs  on  hand.  How  provoking !  " 

"  Let  me  have  a  bit  of  the  paper,"  said  Roland,  "  and  I 
will  run  over  to  the  shop  and  obtain  another  roll.  You  need 
not  be  delayed." 

He  went,  and  we  waited  hour  after  hour  for  his  return ; 
and,  full  of  anxiety  both  for  the  paper-hanger  and  myself,  I 
sent  Jenny  to  the  shop. 

In  a  few  moments  she  returned  with  the  paper,  lind  in 


376  BOSTON     COMMON. 

half  an  hour  the  entry  was  finished,  and  the  man  had  de 
parted.  But  where  this  while  was  Roland  ?  I  summoned 
Jenny. 

"  Did  you  see  anything  of  Mr.  Hastings,"  said  I,  "  when 
you  were  out  ?  " 

"  No,  ma'am,"  she  answered ;  "  but  I  think  he  is  not  far 
off.  Most  likely  he  has  had  some  business  to  attend  to,  which 
has  kept  him,  ma'am." 

"  Yes,  perhaps  he  had,  Jenny,"  said  I.  I  contented  my 
self  with  this  thought,  and,  after  prolonging  our  supper  for 
three  quarters  of  an  hour,  we  were  obliged  to  sit  down  with 
out  him. 

Mrs.  Roscoe,  as  was  her  custom,  retired  immediately  to  her 
room  with  her  babe,  as  soon  as  tea  was  over,  and  I  was  left 
alone  to  await  my  husband's  return.  I  undressed  little  Wil 
liam,  and  rocked  him  to  sleep.  Breathing  a  blessing  over  him, 
I  placed  him  in  his  cradle  and  took  my  sewing.  I  was  making 
a  shirt  for  my  husband,  and  as  I  plied  my  needle,  my  thoughts 
constantly  reverted  to  him. 

At  length  the  clock  struck  ten.  I  threw  my  work  aside, 
and,  running  to  the  window,  peered  anxiously  through  the 
panes  to  see  if  I  could  gain  a  glimpse  of  the  truant.  The 
street  was  silent  and  deserted.  No  person  was  to  be  seen, 
and,  pulling  down  the  curtain,  I  again  seated  myself,  and  took 
up  a  book  to  read.  I  found  something  interesting,  and  I  con 
tinued  to  read  for  more  than  an  hour.  Willie  then  awaked, 
and,  taking  him  from  his  cradle,  I  placed  him  in  the  bed,  and 
lay  down  beside  him  without  undressing. 

Weqry  with  the  duties  of  the  day,  I  sank  into  a  slumber, 
and  dreamed  that  Roland  had  returned ;  that  he  had  smiled 


BOSTON     COMMON.  377 

upon  me,  called  me  his  guardian  spirit,  and  that  he  was  lying 
by  my  side. 

At  length  I  awoke,  shivering  with  the  cold.  I  had  been 
lying  outside  the  bed-clothes,  and  had,  in  consequence,  felt  the 
cold  more  keenly.  Just  then  the  clock  struck  two.  I  started 
from  my  recumbent  position,  and  looked  eagerly  around  for 
Roland.  He  had  not  yet  returned.  A  cold  sensation  of  fear, 
and  a  certainty  almost  that  he  had  again  forgotten  his  prom 
ises,  that  all  was  lost,  took  entire  possession  of  me,  and  my 
heart  sank  within  my  bosom. 

Creeping  noiselessly  from  the  bed,  for  fear  of  awaking  Wil 
lie,  I  approached  the  window,  and,  throwing  it  up,  gazed  long 
and  earnestly  down  the  street. 

All  was  still  and  silent.  The  moon  was  looking  with 
a  cold,  unpitying  eye  upon  my  grief,  and  the  shadow  of  the 
trees  lay  sleeping  in  the  Black  Water,  unstirred  by  a  single 
zephyr. 

Suddenly  a  dog  barked.  "  He  is  coming,"  thought  I ; 
"  and  his  footsteps  have  disturbed  some  neighboring  dog." 

Five,  ten,  twenty  minutes  longer  did  I  sit  shivering  in  the 
cold ;  but  all  remained  quiet.  I  again  closed  the  window  and 
retreated. 

"Where  can  he  be?  What  can  have  happened  to 
detain  him  ? "  thought  I.  "  He  has  never  before  been 
absent  all  night."  I  was  fearful  lest  some  harm  had 
befallen  him. 

The  clock  struck  three.  Wearied,  cold,  and  suffering, 
fearing  also  some  momentary  evil,  I  leaned  my  head 
upon  the  sofa-cushions,  and  burst  into  a  violent  fit  of 
weeping. 

32* 


378  BOSTON     COMMON. 

Nearly  a  quarter  of  an  hour  I  remained  in  this  position ; 
and,  suddenly  thinking  I  heard  footsteps,  I  arose,  and,  running 
to  the  window,  hastily  threw  it  up,  and  once  more  strained 
my  eyes  anxiously  down  the  street. 

All  was  still  as  the  grave.  The  moon  had  gone  far  behind 
the  house,  and  I  could  see  that  her  shadow  was  lying  half-way 
across  the  water  and  the  little  bridge. 

Suddenly  my  eyes  sought  the  pier  of  that  bridge,  for  a  dark 
object  arrested  their  attention.  "  Is  that  the  figure  of  a  man  ?  " 
thought  I.  I  looked  again,  and  then,  scarcely  knowing  what 
I  did,  rushed  to  the  front  door  and  opened  it. 

"  Yes,  surely,"  said  I,  "  that  is  a  man,  and  I  must  ascertain 
who  it  is.  0,  if  it  should  be  my  poor  Roland  !  " 

I  ran  down  the  yard,  and  opened  the  little  gate.  There  is 
always  something  fearful  in  venturing  out  of  doors  alone  in 
the  night,  and  I  stopped  a  moment,  when  near  the  gate,  and 
half  determined  to  return  to  the  house  again  ;  but  a  glance  at 
the  object  on  the  pier,  which  could  now  be  seen  much  plainer 
than  from  the  window,  impelled  me  forward. 

I  ran  quickly  down  the  hill,  and  approached  the  bridge.  I 
could  now  see  that  it  was  really  a  man  who  lay  upon  the  pier. 
The  tide  was  coming  up  rapidly,  and  bid  fair  to  sweep  him  off 
in  an  hour  longer  ! 

I  climbed  over  the  railing  of  the  bridge,  and,  half  dreading, 
half  expecting  some  evil,  I  stepped  upon  the  pier,  and  knelt 
beside  the  object. 

O  God !  what  was  my  horror  to  discover,  by  the  moon 
shining  full  upon  him,  the  countenance  of  my  husband  ! 

"  0,  he  is  dead,  he  is  dead  !  "  exclaimed  I, —  "  what  shall 
I  do  ?  "  I  recollect  no  more.  My  head  swam  around,  my 


BOSTON     COMMON.  379 

eyes  closed,  a  sickening  feeling  of  horror  came  over  me,  and  I 
fell  insensible  across  the  body  of  my  husband  ! 

When  I  came  to  myself,  I  found  that  I  was  at  home,  and 
in  my  own  bed.  My  mother,  father,  and  the  doctor,  were  all 
in  the  room,  and  the  former  was  weeping  bitterly. 

Suddenly,  as  if  by  an  electric  shock,  the  events  of  the  past 
dreadful  night  came  back  to  my  memory.  I  arose  in  bed,  and 
gazed  wildly  around. 

"  My  husband  !  "  exclaimed  I,  —  "  is  he  drowned  ?  0,  in 
mercy  tell  me  where  he  is !  " 

"  Roland  is  safe  and  well,"  said  my  father.  "  Look,  dear 
Helen."  He  pointed,  as  he  spoke,  to  the  sofa.  There  lay 
Roland,  in  a  calm,  deep  sleep.  A  flush  was  upon  his  cheek, 
and  I  groaned  as  I  recognized  it  to  be  the  brand  of  intoxication. 

"  0,  father,"  said  I,  "  tell  me  how  we  were  saved." 

My  father  seated  himself  by  my  bedside,  and  told  me,  in  a 
few  words,  that  Roland  and  myself  had  been  discovered  upon 
the  pier  of  the  bridge,  about  an  hour  before,  by  an  early  riser ; 
that  the  tide  was  rushing  over  us;  and  that,  had  we  not 
been  rescued  immediately,  we  should  in  a  few  moments  have 
been  beyond  the  reach  of  human  aid. 

I  shuddered  when  I  thought  of  our  narrow  escape  from 
death,  and  related  to  my  father  the  circumstances. 

"  Never  be  so  rash  again,  my  dear  Helen,"  said  he.  "  Think 
of  your  child,  and  consider  that  you  owe  a  duty  to  that,  as 
well  as  to  your  husband." 

About  eleven  o'clock  Roland  awaked,  and  asked  for  me.  I 
had  recovered  somewhat  from  my  fright,  and  was  by  his  side 
in  a  moment.  He  turned  away  his  face,  with  a  blush  of  shame, 


380  BOSTON     COMMON. 

as  I  leaned  over  him.  0  that  he  should  ever  have  had  occa 
sion  to  blush  in  the  presence  of  his  wife  ! 

"  Helen,"  said  he,  feebly,  "  I  have  again  sinned  against  you, 
—  I  have  once  more  transgressed  God's  law." 

"  I  know  it,  Roland,"  I  replied,  "  and  have  for  hours  been 
lamenting  your  folly.  But  how  happened  it  ?  " 

"  Why,"  answered  he,  "  I  went  after  that  paper,  intending 
to  return  immediately  ;  but  was  met  by  Albert  Douglas  on  the 
way,  who  coaxed  me  to  go  with  him  for  a  short  time,  as  he 
said.  Helen,  I  have  no  firmness,  as  you  very  well  know,  and 
was  not  proof  against  his  inducements.  I  went,  and  drank 
one  glass  after  another  ;  then  played,  lost,  won,  and  played 
again.  How  dreadfully  did  I  suffer  all  the  while,  when  I 
thought  of  you,  Helen,  at  home,  waiting,  perhaps  weeping,  that 
I  did  not  return  ! 

"  At  length  I  arose  to  return  ;  but,  as  I  was  very  much  in 
toxicated,  Douglas  would  not  suffer  me  to  go  alone,  and  we 
left  together.  When  near  the  bridge,  he  proposed  that  we 
should  climb  over  the  railing,  and  seat  ourselves  upon  the  pier 
for  a  while,  as  he  said,  to  watch  the  beauty  of  the  moon  re 
flecting  upon  the  water. 

"  Too  weak  to  resist,  I  accepted  of  his  assistance,  and  we 
seated  ourselves  upon  the  pier.  I  have  a  faint  recollection, 
after  this,  of  his  telling  me  something  concerning  you,  Helen, 
and  the  affront  you  had  put  upon  him  the  evening  before.  He 
also  said  that  ere  the  dawn  of  another  morning  he  should  be 
revenged  upon  you.  After  this,  all  is  dim  before  me.  I  be 
lieve,  however,  he  left  me,  and  I  called  after  him  to  save  me ; 
but  that,  not  meeting  the  required  aid,  and  trusting  all  would 
terminate  well,  I  sunk  down,  overcome  with  weakness  and  the 


BOSTON     COMMON.  381 

drink  I  had  taken,  and  was  soon  insensible  to  everything 
around  me." 

I  was  horror-stricken  at  this  story.  The  wickedness  of 
Douglas  was  almost  incredible ;  and  I  wept,  and  prayed  of 
Roland  never  to  be  persuaded  to  go  with  him  again. 

"  Helen,"  said  he,  with  much  solemnity,  "  I  sacredly  promise 
never  to  be  in  Douglas'  society  again  ;  but  I  will  not  promise 
to  abstain  from  drinking.  I  have  not  firmness  sufficient.  I 
only  wish  I  had." 

"  0  yes,  Roland,  you  have,"  said  I,  "  if  you  will  only  try. 
I  will  assist  you  in  keeping  your  vow,  —  will  aid  you  in  every 
possible  way,  —  only  trust  me." 

Roland  shook  his  head  despairingly,  and  we  sat  a  long  time, 
talking  over  the  events  of  the  past  night,*and  rejoicing  over 
our  wonderful  escape  from  a  watery  grave. 


CHAPTER    XXXVII. 

"  Mortal,  they  softly  say, 

Peace  to  thy  heart ! 
\Ye,  too,  0  mortal, 

Have  been  as  thou  art ; 
Hope-lifted,  doubt-depressed, 

Seeing  in  part, 
*Tried,  troubled,  tempted, 
Sustained,  as  thou  art." 

"  0,  HELEN  dearest,"  said  Mrs.  Roscoe,  coming  into  my 
room,  the  morning  after  the  escape,  "  what  think  you  ?  My 
cross  old  aunt,  whose  name  I  bear  so  ungraciously,  has  just 
sent  ine  a  letter,  so  kind,  so  affectionate,  in  which  she  makes 
not  the  slightest  allusion  to  my  former  mesalliance,  but  entreats 
me  to  return  to  her  immediately,  and  bring  that  '  interesting 
cherub,'  my  babe,  with*  me  ;  that  she  is  ready  to  receive  me 
with  open  arms,  and  to  bestow  all  her  fortune  upon  me,  pro 
viding  I  will  come  back  and  marry  my  former  rich  suitor,  John 
Smith,  Esq.,  who  has  again  renewed  his  proposal,  through  my 
venerated  and  amiable  relative  !  What  must  I  do,  Helen  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  I  scarcely  know,  dear  Letise,"  I  replied.  "  If 
you  do  not  love  the  man,  I  should  advise  you,  by  all  means, 
to  keep  a  good  distance  from  him ;  for  the  idea  of  marrying  a 
man  on  account  of  his  wealth  would  be  out  of  the  question  for 


BOSTON     COMMON.  383 

me,  and  no  doubt  would  be  quite  as  repugnant  to  your  feel 
ings." 

"  Well,  Helen,  the  idea  of  being  settled  in  a  fine  establish 
ment  of  your  own,  after  having  been  so  long  dependent  upon 
your  friends,  is  not  bad,  is  it  ?  " 

"  That  is  a  consideration,  Letise,  but  need  not  govern  you. 
You  came  to  me  poor,  and  in  affliction ;  and,  so  long  as  I 
have  a  roof  and  a  table,  you  are  welcome  to  its  shelter,  and 
a  place  by  its  side." 

"  Thank  you,  dear  Helen.  You  are,  and  always  were,  the 
best,  the  kindest  friend  I  ever  knew.  I  think,  however,  that 
I  shall  go  and  find  my  aunt,  and  make  some  arrangements 
with  her.  Perhaps  she  will  let  me  off"  from  marrying  this 
man.  Only  think,  Helen,  he  is  a  Smith,  and  one  of  the  ever 
lasting  John  Smiths,  too  !  What  a  name  !  —  so  entirely  dif 
ferent  from  the  soft,  beautiful  one  of  Thaddeus  Roscoe,  is  it 
not?" 

"  Yes,  Letise,  but  '  what 's  in  a  name  ? '  You  should  not 
think  so  much  of  that  as  of  the  disparity  in  your  ages.  And, 
then,  you  are  not  acquainted  with  him  —  have  scarcely  seen 
him.  I  think,  on  the  whole,  dear  Letise,'  that  you  had 
better  remain  where  you  are.  Something  else  may  present 
itself." 

Letise  retired  and  considered.  The  result  was  that  she 
would  go  to  her  aunt,  and  try  to  soften  her  old  heart,  if  she 
had  one,  about  the  marriage.  She  had  no  doubt  but  she 
could  do  it  in  time.  I  was  not  so  sanguine,  however,  but, 
at  her  request,  assisted  her  in  her  preparations  for  departure. 

I  really  felt  very  badly%bout  her  leaving.  She  had  been 
with  me  for  more  than  a  year  and  a  half.  I  had  been  ac- 


384  BOSTON     COMMON. 

customed  to  seeing  her  pleasant  face  at  my  table  for  a  long 
time,  and  was  besides  so  ardently  attached  to  her  babe  that 
it  was  a  great  grief  to  me  to  part  with  them. 

The  day  for  her  departure  at  last  arrived,  and  I  stood  by 
the  carriage  windows,  with  tears  in  my  eyes,  to  bid  her 
adieu.  I  pressed  the  little  Helen  to  my  bosom,  imprinted  kiss 
after  kiss  upon  its  cheeks,  and  then  embraced  the  mother. 

"  I  hope  you  will  prosper  and  be  very  happy,  dearest 
Letise,"  said  I.  "  Should  you  ever  find  yourself  in  trouble 
and  distress  again,  you  know  where  to  apply  —  come  back 
to  me.  God  knows  how  long  I  shall  have  a  home ;  but,  so 
long  as  I  have  one,  you  are  welcome  to  it.  Now,  adieu, 
Letise,  and  Heaven  bless  you !  " 

I  pressed  a  purse  containing  twenty  dollars  into  her  hand. 
"  You  will  perhaps  need  it  for  your  travelling  expenses," 
said  I. 

"  0,  Helen,"  sobbed  Letise,  "  you  have  been  so  kind,  so 
good,  to  me  !  "When  I  had  no  home,  you  took  me  in,  gave 
me  food  and  clothing,  and  succored  my  fatherless  babe. 
What  shall  I  do  to  reward  you?  I  shall  never  forget  your 
kindness,  never  ;  and  the  time  may  come  when  I  shall  have 
an  opportunity  of  doing  something  for  you  in  return.  Should 
you  ever  be  in  trouble  or  want,  Helen,  and  I  in  plenty,  come 
at  once  to  me,  that  I  may  have  the  pleasure  of  paying  back 
some  small  part  of  the  heavy  debt  I  owe  you." 

We  embraced  once  more,  parted,  and  the  carriage  drove 
off".  I  heard  no  more  of  Mrs.  Roscoe  for  a  month,  and  then 
I  received  a  long  letter  from  her,  containing  an  account  of 
her  journey,  the  kind  reception  of  ker  aunt,  and  also  of  her 
marriage  with  the  redoubtable  John  Smith,  Esq.  She  had 


BOSTON     COMMON.  385 

at  last  merged  the  name  of  Roscoe  in  that  of  Smith,  and  was 
now  in  the  possession  of  riches,  station,  happiness,  &o.  The 
remainder  of  the  letter  contained  an  account  of  her  estab 
lishment  in  town,  —  her  carriage,  dresses,  furniture,  silver, 
parties,  &c.  Accompanying  the  letter  was  a  beautiful  silver 
cup  for  Willie,  with  "  Helen  Roscoe  to  William  Hastings  " 
engraved  in  delicate  characters  upon  it.  I  heard  no  more  of 
Letitia  for  a  long  time ;  for  she  shortly  after  departed  for 
Europe,  and  when  she  returned  I  had  become  too  obscure 
for  her  to  visit. 

After  her  departure  I  set  myself  at  work  to  restore  to 
my  mother  her  rights.  My  husband,  with  a  magnanimity 
for  which  I  had  always  given  him  credit,  assisted  me  cheer 
fully  in  this  business.  With  the  aid  of  an  experienced 
lawyer,  we  soon  had  all  arranged,  and  my  mother  was  put  in 
possession  of  the  legacy  which  my  dear  father  bequeathed  to 
her  upon  his  dying  bed.  » 

When  the  business  was  concluded,  I  found  myself  owner 
of  the  house  and  land  only  which  I  then  occupied.  All, 
save  this,  of  my  large  fortune,  had  gone.  Of  course  Roland 
grieved  and  mourned  over  it ;  but  what  could  we  do  ?  We 
could  not  recall  it,  and  I  told  him  that  it  was  of  no  manner 
of  use  for  us  to  sit  down  and  pine  ourselves  to  death  on  ac 
count  of  it.  The  only  thing  to  be  done  was  to  try  and  find 
some  business  that  would  obtain  for  us  a  good  living,  and 
then  go  about  it  cheerfully,  blessing  God  for  the  health  and 
strength  which  we  still  possessed,  and  striving  to  overcome 
our  hard  fortune. 

My  mother  was  not  informed  of  this  affair  until  it  was 
over,  and  she  in  possession  of  the  land.     She  was  much  sur- 
33 


386  BOSTON     COMMON. 

prised,  and  urged  me  to  take  back  a  part  of  it ;  but  I  refused, 
saying  that  neither  she  nor  her  family  should  suffer  for  my 
husband's  faults. 

I  had  now,  from  our  adversity,  strong  hopes  of  Roland's 
entire  emancipation  from  intemperance,  and  already  felt  that 
I  might  yet  have  reason  to  bless  God  for  poverty,  if  it  should 
be  th«  means  of  restoring,  my  husband  to  me  once  more.  I 
dismissed  poor,  faithful  Jenny,  who  had  been  with  me  so 
long,  and  myself  ministered  to  the  wants  of  our  little  house 
hold.  Roland,  seeing  me  so  much  in  earnest,  went  into  his 
long-neglected  place  of  business,  and  for  a  few  weeks  was 
really  industrious  and  temperate.  I  was  just  beginning  to 
experience  a  little  of  my  former  happiness,  when  he  was 
called  out  of  town  to  attend  a  meeting  of  gentlemen.  He 
was  absent  a  week ;  and  when  he  Returned  he  was  so  much 
intoxicated  that  he  did  not  know  me ! 

The  men  who  brought  him  home  placed  him  upon  the  sofa, 
and  glanced  at  me  with  pity  in  their  looks.  I  stood,  with 
my  infant  upon  my  arm,  looking  upon  Roland,  whom  I  had 
expected  to  welcome  home  with  so  much  joy,  in  almost 
stupefaction.  Poverty  for  my  child  and  myself  seemed  to 
stare  me  in  the  face ;  and  he  who  should  have  warded  off  its 
approach,  who  should  have  been  our  protection  and  support, 
lay  before  me  a  helpless  inebriate,  his  health  and  strength, 
that  were  the  gifts  of  an  Almighty  Father,  and  which  should 
have  been  expended  in  labors  of  love,  prostrated  to  the  pleas 
ures  of  a  vile,  an  inexorable  tyrant. 

After  this,  Roland  gave  entirely  up.  His  business  failed 
for  want  of  a  master  ;  his  workmen  cheated  him  out  of  his 
property ;  —  all  went  wrong,  while  the  master  lay  at  home 


BOSTON     COMMON.  387 

intoxicated  more  than  half  his  time.  No  entreaties,  no  per 
suasions  of  mine,  could  induce  him  to  relinquish  the  bottle. 
He  drank,  and  drank  constantly.  Night  after  night  have  I 
remained  in  that  house  with  only  my  infant  near  me ;  and 
-hour  after  hour  have  I  laid  with  my  eyes  open,  and  my 
nerves  in  fearful  expectation  of  his  arrival. 

Sometimes  he  would  come  home  and  stagger  to  bed  as  best 
he  could ;  at  others,  my  wakefulness  and  fear  would  be  re 
warded  by  hearing  two  or  three  men  bringing  him  through 
the  yard.  The  bell  would  ring  ;  I  would  arise  and  open  the 
door  for  them  ;  they  would  place  my  insensible  husband  upon 
the  sofa,  and  leave  me  alone  with  my  sorrow  and  him. 

To  add,  if  possible,  to  my  grief,  lloland  had  begun  to  use 
profane  language ;  and  that  tongue,  which  I  longed  so  ear 
nestly  to  hear  sounding  forth  the  praises  of  God,  had  now 
learned  to  take  His  holy  name  in  vain. 

What  long  weeks  of  anguish  did  I  now  pass  !  Roland  was 
absent  every  night,  and  always  slept  until  late  the  ensuing 
day.  "When  he  awoke,  he  was  sick,  sullen^  and  ill-tempered. 
He  had  no  appetite,  and,  instead  of  eating  with  me,  would 
take  his  bowl  of  coffee,  and  sit  shivering  over  the  kitchen 
nre  for  hours.  He  very  seldom  conversed  with  me,  and  I  as  i 
seldom  provoked  it ;  for  his  conversation  was  so  interspersed 
with  oaths  that  I  was  too  much  shocked  to  listen  to  it. 

Ah !  what  gloomy,  wretched  weeks  were  those  !  I  grew 
sick  and  lean.  My  eyes,  always  large,  now  looked  staring, 
and  were  sad  witli  grief.  Had  it  not  been  for  my  precious 
child,  I  should  have  prayed  most  earnestly  for  death. 

In  this  sad  and  almost  hopeless  condition,  to  whom  could 
I  look  but  to  my  heavenly  Father,  who  was  thus  grievously 


388  BOSTON     COMMON. 

afflicting  me  ?  —  to  whom  apply  for  aid  but  to  Him  who  was 
carrying  me  through  the  dark  waters  of  affliction  ?  I  prayed ; 
and,  as  I  prayed,  I  seemed  to  hear  whispering  angels  begging 
me  to  eschew  my  melancholy,  and  to  keep  my  eye  steadfastly 
fixed  upon  the  reward ;  for  that  my  dark,  gloomy  season 
would  by  and  by  shine  with  perfect  lustre,  and  that  I  should 
yet  arise  and  sing  for  joy. 


CHAPTER    XXXVIII. 

"  We,  Hennia,  like  two  artificial  gods, 
Have,  with  our  needles,  created  both  one  flower, 
Both  on  one  sampler,  sitting  on  one  cushion, 
Both  warbling  of  one  song,  both  in  one  key, 
As  if  our  hands,  sides,  voices,  and  minds 
Had  been  incorporate.     So  we  grew  together, 
Like  to  a  double  cherry,  seeming  parted, 
And  yet  an  union  in  partition." 
-  /  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

ONE  morning,  early  in  September,  as  I  was  sitting  sadly 
brooding  over  my  sorrows,  Katherine"  Merton  entered  the 
room.  She  looked  so  bright  and  cheerful,  and  her  face  wore 
such  a  happy  smile,  that  my  heart  bounded  to  meet  her. 

"  Come,  dearest  Helen,"  said  she,  "  get  your  bonnet,  and 
let 's  take  a  walk  together  this  beautiful  morning.  The  air 
is  soft  and  pure,  and  just  what  you  want  to  make  you 
feel  strong.  Give  me  Willie.  I  will  put  on  his  hat  and 
cloak." 

"  I  do  not  feel  like  going  out,  Katie,"  said  I,  feebly.  "  I 
am  too  wretched  to  enjoy  the  scenes  of  Nature  now." 

"  Poh,  Helen !  "  answered  Kate.  "  Not  enjoy  God's 
beautiful  works,  spread  out  with  such  variety  and  profusion 
before  you  ?  They  were  made  to  make  you  happy.  If  you 
33* 


390  BOSTON     COMMON. 

are  ill,  however,  we  will  not  go,  but  will  sit  down  and  talk. 
I  have  such  a  deal  to  tell  you,  —  so  now  prepare  to  listen." 

I  looked  languidly  towards  the  speaker.  "  You  know,  Nell," 
continued  she,  "  that  I  am  to  be  married  in  the  spring,  —  at 
least,  so  papa,  mamma,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  world,  say. 
Well,  Helen,  as  I  cannot  be  much  with  you  after  that  blissful 
period,  for  I  do  not  expect  to  reside  in  Linden,  I  am  coming 
to  live  with  you  now  !  I  am  not  going  to  leave  you,  my  poor 
little  friend,  this  autumn  and  winter,  to  sit  and  listen  to  the 
wind  howling  gloomily  around  the  house ;  —  no,  I  shall  be 
constantly  with  you,  my  darling,  and  we  will  be  so  happy  ! 

"  I  am  to  get  up  first  in  the  morning,  and  make  the  coffee ; 
—  mind,  I  am  to  make  the  coffee,  for  your  coffee  is  not  a  cir 
cumstance  to  mine.  Then  we  will  eat  breakfast  together,  with 
precious  little  Willie  between  us.  This  over,  we  will  wash  all 
up  nice,  sweep  and  dust;  then  take  a  fine  mountain  walk  to 
gether,  stop  on  our  return  at  your  mother's,  have  a  good  chat 
with  her  and  Constance,  and  get  a  drink  of  her  fresh  milk. 

"  After  dinner,  Helen,  you  shall  play  me  some  of  your  own 
beautiful  music.  You  need  not  shake  your  head,  and  look  so 
dolefully,  as  if  the  very  sound  of  music  was  painful  to^you; 
for  I  mean  to  make  you  practise,  in  spite  of  yourself.  Then 
we  will  sew,  or  read,  or  play  with  the  baby,  until  after  supper, 
when  we  will  take  another  walk,  or  sit  together  for  hours, 
talking  and  singing.  0,  we  shall  have  such  fine  times  !  You 
must  shake  off  your  rnoodiness,  your  dulness.  I  am  not  going 
to  have  any  gloomy  people  around  me,  I  can  tell  you ;  so,  if 
you  persist  in  your  melancholy,  I  shall  give  you  warning  to 
leave  at  once,  —  remember  !  " 

Dear  Kate  !  how  very  good  of  her  to  be  willing  to  give  up 


BOSTON     COMMON.  391 

all  the  pleasures  of  home,  and  come  and  share  with  me  my 
sorrow  !  God  bless  thee,  Kate !  Thy  presence,  and  cheerful 
spirit,  saved  me  from  many  a  long,  weary  hour,  which  would 
otherwise  have  been  spent  in  weeping. 

Kate  was  as  good  as  her  word.  She  came,  the  next  day, 
with  her  trunks,  books,  &c.,  and,  taking  Letitia's  chamber,  soon 
had  everything  arranged  to  suit  her  convenience  and  taste. 
But  precious  little  time  did  she  spend  there,  —  my  room  was 
the  place  where  all  our  love,  our  happiness,  centred.  Dost 
thou  remember  it  still,  my  Kate,  —  that  little  room? 

As  I  look  back  upon  the  time  that  has  flown  since  thou  and 
I  last  met  together  there,  I  ask  myself  if  there  ever  was  a  place 
where,  in  spite  of  all  my  trouble,  I  have  enjoyed  more  heart 
felt  pleasure.  I  can  shut  my  eyes  now  and  recall  every 
article  in  that  cherished  room. 

The  figures  in  the  carpet,  the  rug,  the  benutiful,  soft-toned 
piano,  from  which  we  have  both  drawn  such  sweet  sounds ;  the 
table,  with  its  solar  lamp,  and  books  of  taste  and  merit,  which 
had  delighted  us  so  many  times  by  their  high  and  lofty  senti 
ments,  or  cheering  pictures  of  life  ;  the  two  large  easy-chairs, 
in  which  Kate  and  myself  rocked  and  talked  away  so  many 
hours ;  the  cradle  between  us,  containing  the  fair  babe,  in 
which  both  Kate  and  myself  felt  a  mother's  interest,  and  which 
we  both  rocked  alternately ;  and  last,  but  not  least,  the  little 
broken  pitcher,  standing  upon  the  table,  beside  our  luncheon. 
What  though  the  nose  had  gone  ?  We  would  drink  from  it 
in  preference  to  a  golden  one,  for  it  was  a  dear  old  pitcher, 
and  connected  with  a  thousand  sweet  memories.  Katie  and 
myself  had  drank  from  its  brim  many  times,  for  years,  and 
surely  we  would  not  discard  it  now  that  it  had  grown  old  and 


392  BOSTON     COMMON. 

broken  in  our  service.  Besides,  water  never  tasted  from  any 
other  pitcher  as  it  did  from  that ;  and  often,  while  sewing  and 
chatting  together  so  merrily,  we  would  glance  affectionately  at 
the  little  pitcher,  as  if  to  say,  We  will  never  part  from  you ! 

My  own  Kate !  I  would  give  worlds  for  just  one  glance  into 
that  little  room,  with  its  appendages,  once  more ;  or  for  one 
hour  spent  with  you  there,  where,  for  that  little  hour,  I  could 
have  you  all  to  myself,  as  in  the  olden  time. 

And,  while  the  fine  weather  lasted,  what  long  rambles  would 
we  have  upon  our  favorite  "  Granite  Bluff,"  where  we  could 
sit  and  view  the  whole  village  from  our  airy  height ;  or  we 
would  roam  through  the  woods,  and  gather  the  wild-flowers, 
to  press  and  analyze ;  or  we  would  wander  towards  the  water's 
edge,  and,  sitting  upon  the  rocks,  watch  with  delight  the  spray, 
as  it  dashed  softly  against  their  huge  old  sides. 

O,  those  were  sweet  times,  and  never  to  be  forgotten ;  and 
Katie,  darling,  made  them  just  as  happy  as  possible,  and  kept 
me  constantly  employed,  so  that  I  had  no  time  to  brood  over 
my  sorrows.  We  made  clothes  for  ourselves,  and  for  Willie  ; 
we  sewed  for  the  poor ;  and  we  each  made  a  patchwork  quilt 
for  ourselves,  just  alike.  The  pattern  from  which  we  made 
them  was  called  "  Job's  patience,"  but  we  christened  it  "  Job's 
impatience,"  for  ours  was  sadly  exhausted  before  we  had 
finished  them. 

But  where  was  Roland,  all  this  while,  and  what  was  he  doing  ? 
I  can  make  but  one  answer,  and  it  will  be  the  old  one.  Drink 
ing,  drinking,  or  gambling,  with  his  miserable  associates.  He 
would  often  be  absent  from  home  for  two  or  three  days  to 
gether,  but  I  had  learned  to  regard  this  as  a  common  thing ; 
and,  as  he  was  a  quiet,  gentlemanly  drunkard,  and  never 


BOSTON     COMMON.  393 

sought  occasion  to  quarrel  with  any  one,  I  had  schooled  my 
heart  to  feeling  easy  on  his  account ;  and  I  was  not  wrong, 
for  he  always  came  home  safe. 

Sometimes,  when  alone  with  Roland,  I  would  take  his  hand, 
look  earnestly  into  his  face,  and  implore  him  to  try  and  leave 
off  his  bad  habits ;  to  remain  at  home,  with  Katie,  Willie,  and 
myself,  and  we  would  do  so  much  to  make  him  happy. 

And  then  I  would  talk  earnestly  of  the  love  of  God  to  him, 
—  how,  in  spite  of  his  rebellion,  his  constant  transgressions, 
He  was  still  waiting,  ready  to  forgive,  ready  to  blot  out  all  the 
sins  of  the  past. 

Sometimes  Roland  would  be  much  affected;  at  othe.-s, 
he  would  break  away  from  me  with  an  oath,  or  some  gross 
expression  of  impatience.  What  could  I  do  then  ?  Why, 
only  pray  for  him,  that  God  would  yet  bring  back  this  lost 
sheep  to  his  fold;  and,  somehow,  when  I  had  finished  my 
prayer,  a  sweet  peace  would  steal  into  my  soul,  and  an  as 
surance  would  seem  granted  me  that  all  would  yet  be  as  I 
wished. 

My  love,  my  pure,  young,  earnest  love  for  Roland,  had 
gone.  I  was  not  unfaithful ;  but  could  I  love  and  esteem  the 
drunkard,  the  gambler,  the  profaner  of  God's  holy  name  ?  No ; 
when  I  beheld  my  husband  grovelling  at  my  feet  in  all  his 
manly  beauty,  when  I  heard  him  blaspheming  the  name  I  so 
much  revered,  struggle  as  I  would  against  it,  my  love  expired ; 
but  a  feeling  of  pity,  of  strong,  deep  interest  for  his  well-being, 
for  his  eternal  happiness,  took  possession  of  my  heart,  and 
never  flagged  for  a  moment. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Kate,"  said  I  to  her,  one  morning. 
"  You  look  uneasy.  Has  anything  occurred  to  vex  you? " 


394  BOSTON     COMMON. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  pettishly.  "  That  singular  piece 
of  mechanism,  that  ingeniously-made  man,  Horace  Wilds,  has 
been  here  all  the  morning."  .. 

I  looked  wonderingly  at  my  friend.  She  was  pacing  the 
floor  in  an  excited  manner,  her  hazel  eyes  sparkling,  and  her 
brown  hair  floating  loosely  upon  her  shoulders. 

"  Why,  Kate,  you  call  your  future  husband  hard  names  ; 
don't  you  love  him  ?  " 

"  I  tell  you,  Nellie,  I  don't  love  anybody  but  you.  I  don't 
know  what  love  is ;  neither  did  I  ever  wish  to  know  until  I 
came  here  to  live  with  you.  I  have  heard  you  talk  so  much 
of  love,  of  its  sweetness,  of  its  power,  that  I  begin  to  think  I 
should  like  to  experience  its  delights  some  time ;  and  I  am 
resolved  to,  if  ever  I  can  find  a  man  who  is  worthy  of  being 
loved." 

"  Why,  Katherine,  how  strangely  you  talk  !  What  will 
you  do  with  your  betrothed  husband  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,  I  'm  sure.  I  only  wish  he  was  at  the 
antipodes.  He  is  so  fond  of  opposites  that  I  should  think  he 
would  take  a  trip  there,  some  fine  day.  It  would  be  so  delight 
ful  to  be  walking  feet  to  feet  with  him,  and  thousands  of  miles 
between  us  ! " 

"  Well,  Kate,  you  are  the  strangest  girl !  Why,  in  the 
name  of  everything  good,  are  you  engaged  to  him,  if  you  dis 
like  him  so  much  ?  " 

"  Why,  indeed  ?  I  am  sure  I  don't  know,  and  I  scarcely 
think  that  he  does.  Everybody  made  this  match,  I  had 
nothing  whatever  to  do  with  it  but  to  consent." 

"  And  why  did  you  consent  so  readily  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  tell.     I  supposed  that  I  must  be  married  some 


BOSTON     COMMON.  395 

time ;  and,  as  I  loved  all  men  alike,  I  tnought  Horace  Wilds 
as  good  as  any.  But  I  think  quite  differently  now,  and  am 
surprised  at  my  former  blindness.  I  look  upon  the  marriage 
tie  as  a  great  and  solemn  duty,  which  it  concerns  us  all  to 
regard,  and  provide  for  in  such  a  manner  that  we  shall  not 
have  to  regret  and  repent  it  all  our  lives," 

"  I  quite  agree  with  you,  Katherine  ;  but  what  will  you  do 
with  Wild  Horace  ?  " 

"  Why,"  she  answered,  half  smiling,  "  I  do  not  know ;  but 
there  is  one  thing  I  am  quite  confident  of,  —  I  shall  never 
believe  in  Shakspeare  again,  never !  He  says  that  '  the 
course  of  true  love  never  did  run  smooth.'  He  is  at  fault 
there ;  for  it  has  run  smooth,  perfectly  so,  in  this  instance. 
There  is  nothing  to  separate  us ;  no  unwilling  parents,  no  rich 
old  relatives  to  beg  consent  of,  no  jarring  discords,  or  angry 
words  between  the  parties  themselves  ;  —  how  very  provoking  ! 
But  I  must  endeavor  to  dispose  of  him  right  away ;  must  tell 
him  that  some  day  I  shall  certainly  love,  and  that  I  do  not 
wish  to  be  loving  one  man  and  living  with  another." 

"  And  what  effect  do  you  think  this  smart  speech  will  have 
upon  the  airy  gentleman  ?  " 

"  O,  not  much.  He  will  soon  forget  it,  and  it  will  be  better 
for  us  both  ;  for  I  should  never  know  when  he  was  in  earnest 
or  when  in  jest,  and  the  consequences  resulting  from  wrong 
impressions  given  by  him  might  be  fatal.  Do  you  think,  the 
other  day,  Helen,  after  putting  a  nice  new  pen  into  a  handle, 
as  he  was  talking  very  busily  with  me,  he  dipped  the  latter 
into  the  ink,  and  wrote  half  a  dozen  lines  with  it  ere  he  discov 
ered  his  mistake." 

"  Indeed  !  the  letters  must  have  been  amazingly  delicate." 


396  BOSTON     COMMON. 

"  0,  they  were  large  enough,  I  assure  you !  two  or  three 
words  filled  a  line.  He  is  always  doing  some  such  foolish 
thing.  I  should  expect,  if  we  were  to  be  married,  that  he 
might,  through  absent-mindedness,  stand  his  groomsman  in 
his  place,  and  not  discover  the  mistake  until  it  was  too  late. 
Or,  providing  we  should  be  safely  married,  he  might  forget 
that  he  ought  to  live  any  longer,  and  commit  suicide  the  next 
day,  or  even  hang  me,  his  beloved  wife,  upon  a  nail,  some 
morning,  with  his  coat  and  hat." 

I  laughed,  and  so  did  Kate.  "  Well,  Nellie,"  she  con 
tinued,  "  we  will  not  trouble  our  heads  any  longer  about  this 
Horace  Wilds.  I  will  tell  him  my  sentiments  the  very  next 
time  we  meet." 

And  she  was  as  good  as  her  word.  Horace  and  Kate  dis 
solved  copartnership  soon  after,  and  he  married  another  girl 
in  just  a  week,  "  to  spite  Kate,"  as  he  said  ;  but  here  he  lost 
his  reckoning,  for,  after  this  little  flurry  was  over,  she  was  just 
as  calnv  just  as  cheerful  as  ever,  and  Horace  and  Mrs.  Mag 
gie  Wilds  loved,  lived,  and  faded  from  our  memories. 

Thus  passed  our  happy  autumn  and  winter  in  the  dear  old 
place.  What  though  the  winds  did  howl  around  the  house, 
and  strive  to  force  an  entrance  ?  What  though  the  snow  fell 
in  big  drifts,  and  covered  all  the  beautiful  shrubs  and  flow 
ers  ?  And  what  though  neither  sun  nor  blue  sky  were  to  be 
seen  for  many  days  at  a  time,  in  that  bleak  winter  ?  We 
heeded  it  not,  —  we  were  happy.  The  wind  in  that  comfort 
able  parlor  could  not  disturb  a  curl  upon  our  brows ;  th 
snow  could  not  chill  our  frames ;  and  when  old  Sol  hid  hit, 
head,  we  looked  at  each  other,  and  the  sunshine  in  our  ow» 
faces  sufficed  for  us. 


BOSTON     COMMON.  397 

I  never  loved  a  woman  half  so  much  as  Kate  ;  but,  then, 
there  never  was  a  Kate  like  mine.  Entre  nous,  reader,  she 
was  the  real,  genuine  Katie  Darling,  although  you  may  not 
believe  it.  She  was  not  "  Katy  did  n't,"  but  "  Katy  did ;  "  for 
she  was  always  doing  some  kind  action,  and  she  never  spoke 
or  looked  at  you  but  you  felt  better.  Even  Roland  seemed 
at  times  to  feel  the  influence  of  her  cheering  presence ;  and 
once,  when  he  had  been  absent  from  home  for  two  or  three 
days,  he  brought  her,  when  he  returned,  a  beautiful  little 
Bible,  upon  the  clasp  of  which  her  name  was  engraven  in  fine, 
delicate  characters.  I  told  Katie  it  was  her  goodness  that 
had  inspired  the  gift ;  but  she  stoutly  denied  the  charge,  and 
said  she  was  quite  sure  a  reformation  had  begun  in  Roland. 

But,  alas  for  human  hopes  and  human  joys  !  The  mark  of 
decay  and  desolation  is  stamped  upon  them  all.  With  the 
middle  of  February  ended  my  new  dream  of  happiness. 
Mrs.  Merton,  Kate's  mother,  was  taken  ill ;  and,  when  she 
recovered,  was  advised  by  her  physicians  to  go  to  the  South. 
Katherine  was  her  favorite  daughter,  and  she  must  travel 
with  her.  How  like  a  thunderbolt  did  this  news  fall  upon 
me  !  I  wept,  and  almost  wished  I  might  die,  —  then  listened 
calmly  to  the  gentle,  affectionate  words  Kate  was  saying  to 
me. 

"I  must  go,  my  Nellie.  No  other  duty  than  that  a 
daughter  owes  to  a  beloved  parent  would  call  me  from  your 
side.  I  shall  miss  you  so  much,  dear,  and  think  of  you  every 
moment.  Do  the  best  you  can,  Nellie,  and  never  despair, 
never  give  up,  but  pray  to  God  constantly  for  help.  He  will 
give  it  you;  he  will,  as  you  have  already  experienced, 
vouchsafe  assistance  and  comfort." 
34 


BOSTON     COMMON. 

How  sadly  did  the  time  now  roll  by !  Kate  was  to  remain 
but  a  week  longer  with  us;  and  how  tenacious  were  we  of 
every  moment !  We  hugged  these  golden  treasures,  and  never 
before  realized  how.  precious  was  time.  But  day  after  day 
came  and  passed,  and,  in  the  swiftness  of  their  flight,  seemed 
but  to  mock  our  grief.  At  length  the  last  day  arrived.  Kate 
was  to  remain  with  me  all  day,  and  we  were  to  sleep  together 
that  night.  Early  in  the  morning  her  mother  was  to  call  for 
her,  upon  her  way  to  the  steamboat. 

How  vividly  is  every  moment  of  that  precious  day  engraven 
upon  my  heart !  Let  me  see :  what  did  we  do  this  day  ? 
First,  prepared  our  breakfast,  as  usual ;  but  the  toast  was 
untasted,  and  the  coffee,  although  of  "Katie's  own  excellent 
make,  left  cold  in  our  cups.  We  walked  sadly  around  until 
dinner-time,  and  visited  all  the  rooms  in  the  house.  Every 
nook  and  cranny  was  examined.  We  even  went  into  the 
wood-shed ;  fed  the  chickens  together ;  talked  to  the  old, 
time-honored  cat,  —  stroked  her  venerable  fur,  and  then  re 
turned  to  the  sitting-room. 

In  the  afternoon  we  sat  down  for  one  good,  old-fashioned 
chat,  which  we  said  should  be  the  last  one.  After  this  I 
must  sit  and  play  all  our  dear  old  tunes  over  and  over  again 
to  Katie,  for  she  said  she  wished  them  to  remain  fresh  in  her 
memory  for  a  long  time.  Then  we  seated  ourselves  on,ce 
more  in  our  easy-chairs,  rocked  the  cradle  together,  and 
looked  in  each  other's*  faces  with  a  sad,  mournful  expression. 

"  I  shall  never  forget  this  little  room,"  said  Kate.  "Each 
object  will  live  forever  in  my  memory.  No  circumstances  of 
time  or  place  can  ever  erase  them  therefrom.  And  that  little 
pitcher,  —  what  fond  associations  cluster  around  that !  Helen, 


BOSTON      COMMON.  399 

my  darling,  be  sure  you  take  very  good  care  of  it;  for,  if 
ever  I  am  married  and  have  a  house  of  my  own,  I  must  and 
will  have  that  pitcher,  if  I  have  to  commit  burglary  for  it." 

"  Look,  Katherine,"  said  I ;  "  I  am  going  to  place  it  upon 
this  top  shelf,  —  far  above  the  sugar-bowl  and  jar  of  sweet 
meats,  so  that  Willie  cannot,  reach  it  in  his  peregrinations." 

We  drank  from  its  little  rim  for  the  last  time,  and  then 
placed  it,  with  tearful  eyes,  in  its  future  resting-place. 

Do  what  we  would  to  arrest  the  progress  of  time,  nine,  ten, 
eleven,  twelve  o'clock  sounded;  and,  taking  Willie,  we  pro 
ceeded  together  to  Katherine's  chamber.  Our  last  chapter 
was  read,  our  last  prayer  breathed,  and  we  sank  to  sleep  in 
each  other's  arms. 

The  sun  was  shining  brightly  when  we  arose  the  next 
morning.  Breakfast  was  prepared  and  eaten.  Wonder  of 
wonders! — just  as  we  were  ready  to  sit  down,  Roland  en 
tered!  Was  he  ever  there  to  breakfast  with  us  before? 
Never  ;  and  we  were  so  surprised  and  pleased  that  we  half 
forgot  our  grief. 

"  Roland  is  surely  reforming,  Helen !  "  said  Kate  to  me. 
"  I  trust  he  will  continue  to  rise  early,  for  I  should  feel  so 
sadly  if  I  thought  you  and  dear  little  Willie  were  eating 
alone !  " 

At  length,  true  to  our  expectations,  the  carriage  drove  to 
the  door.  Kate  was  bundled  up  with  my  own  hands,  which, 
now  that  the  parting  moment  had  really  come,  were  firm  and 
unshaken.  She  had  blessed  aq,d  embraced  me,  almost  smoth 
ered  Willie  with  kisses,  shaken  hands  with  Roland,  who 
handed  her  into  the  carriage,  and  driven  off,  ere  I  scarcely 
realized  that  she  was  indeed  gone. 


400  BOSTON     COMMON. 

I  stood  sadly  gazing  after  the  carriage  which  conveyed 
away  my  early  and  dear  friend,  and  a  weight  of  loneliness, 
such  as  I  had  not  felt  for  many  a  long  day  before,  fell  upon 
my  heart.  But,  thinking  of  my  duties,  and  resolving  to 
fulfil  them  strictly,  and  to  bear  my  sorrows  patiently,  I 
returned  to  my  almost  desolate  room. 

Roland  was  very  kind  that  day.  He  actually  remained  at 
home  and  assisted  me  in  taking  care  of  Willie,  and  in  putting 
things  to  rights ;  for  he  said  now  that  Katherine  was 
gone  I  ought  to  have  assistance. 

The  day  passed  much  calmer  than  I  had  imagined  it  would. 
I  shed  many  tears,  it  is  true,  for  my  friend's  departure ;  but 
they  were  not  hopeless  ones,  for  I  knew  that  she  still  loved 
me,  and  that  one  day  we  should  meet  again. 


CHAPTER    XXXIX. 

"  I  do  arm  myself, 

To  welcome  the  time,  which  cannot  look  more  hideously 
Than  I  have  drawn  it  in  my  fantasy." 

SECOND  PART  OP  KING  HENRY  IV. 

CONTRARY  to  our  hopes,  Roland  did  not  reform.  He  was 
just  the  same,  and  worse,  if  possible.  I  was  obliged  to  break 
fast  alone;  but  my  dinners  I  would  invariably  eat  at  my 
mother's.  Either  she  or  my  little  sister  would  spend  the 
afternoon  and  take  tea  with  me.  Thus  I  managed  to  get 
through  with  the  day ;  but  the  nights  were  the  worst.  O, 
the  long,  weary  hours  that  I  spent  alone  with  my  child  in 
that  house ! 

I  had  grown  nervous  since  Kate's-  departure,  and  half 
afraid  to  be  alone.  I  would  fancy  every  noise  I  heard  to  be 
something  that  would  harm  me ;  and  would  lie  trembling  upon 
my  couch  for  hours,  and  imagining  that  all  sorts  of  beings 
were  peopling  the  vacant  rooms.  My  usual  strong-minded 
ness  and  ridicule  of  such  things  seemed  to  have  quite  for 
saken  me ;  and,  in  the  loneliness  in  which  I  lived,  I  was  fast 
yielding  to  a  morbidness  and  weakness  of  mind  that  was 
gradually  creeping  over  me,  and  which  I  found  it  impossible 
to  resist.' 

34* 


402  BOSTON     COMMON. 

One  night,  in  particular,  I  remember  that  I  fell  asleep, 
and  dreamed  of  Roland.  I  thought  that  I  heard  voices  in 
the  street,  which,  as  they  neared  my  door,  were  hushed  to 
suppressed  whispers.  If  there  is  anything  frightful  to  me,  it 
is  to  hear  an  unknown  whisper  near  me.  The  voices  grew 
softer  and  softer,  then  ceased  altogether,  and  then  I  could 
hear  a  heavy  tread,  as  of  a  number  of  men;  and,  rising,  I 
went  to  the  window  for  the  purpose  of  looking  out ;  but  they 
had  entered  the  hall,  and  were  now  bringing  up  something 
heavy.  I  fancied  that  a  wild  fear  had  taken  possession  of  my 
heart ;  my  hair  was  on  end,  a  cold  perspiration  stood  upon 
my  forehead,  and  I  sank  shivering  back  to  my  couch ;  but 
on  and  on  came  that  heavy  tread,  and  fainter  and  fainter 
grew  the  whispers ! 

At  last  they  had  reached  my  door ;  had  entered  and  de 
posited  their  burden  upon  the  carpet  in  front  of  my  bed.  I 
looked,  and  the  sight  froze  my  blood  and  stilled  the  beating  of 
my  heart!  There,  on  a  long  green  window-shutter,  lay  my 
husband !  But  the  limbs  were  cold  and  stiff,  and  the  face 
white  and  ghastly  as  the  sheets  which  partly  enveloped  him. 
A  wound,  which  had  caused  his  death,  was  cut  deep  into  the 
forehead,  and  the  purple  blood  had  settled  darkly  around  it. 
Spots  of  blood  were  upon  the  sheet  also ;  and  the  eyes,  cold 
and  stony,  were  fixed  upon  me  with  an  expression  I  shall 
never  forget  to  my  dying  day. 

With  a  start  and  scream  of  horror  I  awoke,  and  gazed 
wildly  around  the  room.  Everything  was  in  its  place,  but  I 
could  not  divest  myself  of  the  idea  that  the  corpse  and  green 
shutter  were  somewhere  in  existence,  and  that  I  should  yet 
behold  them. 


BOSTON     COMMON.  403 

I  arose  and  opened  the  window.  It  was  a  wild,  stormy 
night  in  the  middle  of  March,  and  I  hastily  closed  it  again ; 
but,  as  I  did  so,  I  fancied  I  heard  a  breathing  near  me.  A 
cold  fear  of  something,  I  knew  not  what,  took  possession  of 
me,  but  expired  the  next  moment,  as  I  thought  of  my  child. 
"  But  no,"  said  I,  "  he  breathes  not  so  heavily.  What  is  it  ? 
Where  can  it  come  from  ?  " 

I  grasped  the  light,  and  peered  wildly  under  the  _bed  and 
sofa.  There  was  nothing  there  to  confirm  iny  suspicion,  how 
ever,  and,  with  fear  still  quaking  at  my  heart,  I  bent  my 
steps  to  the  dining-room  and  kitchen.  All  seemed  as  I  had 
left  it.  The  clock  was  ticking  pleasantly  in  a  corner,  and 
lonesome  old  puss,  glad  to  see  me,  yawned,  and  came  rub 
bing  her  sides  softly  against  my  night-robe. 

I  went  back  to  the  nursery  again  ;  and,  as  all  seemed  still, 
lay  down,  thinking  it  must  be  merely  imagination.  In  a  few 
moments,  however,  I  heard  a  long-drawn  breath  and  sigh 
quite  near  me  !  I  started  from  the  bed  once  more,  and  went 
into  the  sitting-room.  I  looked  around  anxiously  ;  and,  as  a 
thought  darted  into  my  mind,  I  suddenly  stooped  and  laid 
my  car  to  the  floor. 

I  could  now  hear  the  breathing  quite  plainly,  and  it  evi 
dently  came  from  the  room  below.  I  descended  the  stairs, 
and  softly  opened  the  parlor  door.  There  lay  Koland,  sure 
enough,  upon  the  carpet  asleep,  and  with  his  clothes  and  boots 
wet  through  ! 

I  immediately  set  about  taking  off  his  wet  boots.    I  tugged 
a  long  time  at  them,  and  at  last  one  of  them  yielded  to  my, 
efforts  ;  but  the  other  was  refractory.     The  water  had  swollen 
the  leather,  and  it  clung  to  his  foot  like  a  vampire  to  the  dead. 


404  BOSTON     COMMON. 

I  then  drew  off  his  wet  coat,  and,  getting  a  pillow  and  some 
blankets,  wrapped  him  up  and  left  him  to  sleep  as  long  as  he 
chose.  But  I  did  not  forget  my  dream,  or  the  subsequent 
fright,  for  a  long  time. 

A  drunkard's  wife  is  never  safe,  never  at  rest.  By  day 
and  by  night  she  is  constantly  disturbed,  constantly  in  fear. 
I  have  lain  for  hours  upon  my  bed,  expecting  and  dreading 
that  my  husband  might  either  be  committing  a  crime,  or  tbe 
brought  home  killed  in  some  horrible  manner. 


CHAPTER    XL. 

"  O'er  the  wrung  heart,  from  midnight's  breathless  sky, 
Lone  looks  the  pity  of  the  Eternal  eye." 

*  "  NEW  TIMON. 

"  Within  that  dwelling  lonely, 

Where  want  and  darkness  reign, 
Her  precious  child,  her  only, 
Lay  moaning  in  his  pain." 

MBS.  S.  J.  HALE. 

"  I  had  a  dream,  which  was  not  all  a  dream." 

BYRON. 

AT  the  close  of  March  we  were  visited  by  one  of  those 
long,  dreary  snow-storms  which  are  common  to  the  New  Eng 
land  States.  Willie  had  been  ailing  for  some  days ;  and  now, 
as  the  night  drew  on,  he  seemed  to  be  in  a  high  fever.  It  was 
his  first  sickness,  and  I,  of  course,  was  very  much  alarmed. 
I  could  not  possibly  get  out,  for  the  snow  was  three  feet  high 
all  around  the  house,  and  it  was  still  snowing  very  fast. 

Willie  was  moaning  and  crying ;  and  when  I  took  him  from 
his  cradle  after  supper,  hia  head  and  hands  were  so  hot,  and 
his  eyes  so  heavy,  that  in  alarm  I  turned  to  his  father. 

"  0,  Roland  !  "  said  I,  "  do  you  see  our  dear  child  ?  He 
is  very  ill  indeed.  His  hands  are  hot,  his  eyes  dull,  and  his 


406  BOSTON    COMMON. 

mouth  parched  and  burning  with  fever.  Roland,  go  at  ouce 
and  bring  a  physician ;  do  not  delay  a  moment.  And,  Ro 
land,'!  continued  I,  "  if  ever  there  was  one  spark  of  love  in 
your  heart  for  your  poor  wife  and  suffering  child,  do  not 
drink,  lose  your  senses,  and  forget  your  duty.  In  mercy  for 
bear  this  one  night !  0,  Roland  !  will  you  remember  ?  Can 
I  trust  you  ?  " 

"  Do  you  take  me  for  a  fool,  Mrs.  Hastings  ? "  said  he. 
"  Is  not  that  child  as  much  mine  as  yours,  and  ought  it  not 
to  be  supposed  that  I  have  as  great  an  interest  in  him  as 
you  ?  " 

"  Well,  then,  Roland,  I  will  trust  you ;  but  hasten,  for 
Willie  is  growing  worse  very  fast." 

He  departed  ;  and  —  reader,  I  am  writing  facts  — six  hours 
*  elapsed  ere  he  returned  ! 

What  my  sufferings  were  during  that  long,  weary  vigil,  I 
can  never  describe.  My  child  grew  worse ;  his  fever  in 
creased,  and  I  sat  holding  him  in  my  arms  and  weeping  over 
him.  0,  the  agony  of  that  night !  I  knew  not  what  to  do 
for  Willie ;  and  I  thought  that  here,  in  a  large  town,  with  a 
plenty  of  physicians  and  medicines  around  me,  what  a  shock 
ing  thing  it  would  be  for  him  to  perish  for  the  want  of  assist 
ance.  I  thought  of  his  dear  little  caresses,  of  the  sweet 
words  he  had  just  begun  to  lisp  ;  my  eyes  then  fell  upon  a  tiny 
shoe  that  lay  near  the  cradle,  and  next  wandered  to  the  face 
of  my  babe. 

A  dark  circle  had  gathered  under  the  eyes,  and  a  wild  sen 
sation  of  fear  darted  through  my  mind  that  my  child  was  to 
perish  here,  alone  with  me.  And  then  a  vision  of  the  little 
robe,  of  the  dimpled  hand  clasping  the  broken  flowers,  of  the 


BOSTON     COMMON.  407 

satin-lined  coffin,  and  grave  beside  his  little  brother's,  came 
suddenly  into  my  mind.  Then  I  thought  of  my  black  dress, 
and  return  from  that  grave  to  my  lonely  home,  where  I  should 
hear  no  more  the  voice  of  my  child,  or  respond  with  tender 
ness  to  his  infantile  caresses.  I  dispelled  these  thoughts, 
however,  as  quickly  as  they  came,  for  they  were  too  harrow 
ing  to  be  entertained  for  a  moment,  and  forced  myself  to 
think  of  pleasanter  things. 

I  imagined  my  Willie  a  beautiful,  noble  boy  ;  then  a  high- 
toned,  lofty-minded  man  ;  and  then,  as  I  gazed  at  his  fevered 
cheeks,  and  marked  his  heavy  breathing,  deep  sobs  burst  from 
my  bosom,  and  "  0  Willie,  my  heart  is  breaking ! "  broke 
from  my  tongue. 

Eleven  o'clock,  and  still  the  father  comes  not.  0,  what  a 
power  has  the  tyrant  rum  over  its  victims,  that  it  will  not 
hasten  to  obey  such  a  call  as  that !  To  know  that  an  only, 
a  darling  child  is  sick,  perhaps  dying,  for  the  want  of  aid, 
and  to  refuse  to  come  !  Still  a  little  more  of  the  poison 
is  poured  into  the  cup ;  still  a  few  more  senseless  jokes  are 
being  spoken ;  still  a  little  more  of  God's  patience  is  put 
to  the  test  by  the  wretched  creatures'  profanity;  still  the 
snow  sweeps  on,  and  the  blast  cuts  and  whistles ;  still  the 
mother  sits  at  home,  with  her  agonized,  almost  expiring 
child ;  and  every  moment,  as  it  passes,  lacerates  her  heart 
as  with  a  lash. 

But  what  matters  all  this  ?  'T  is  only  a  few  more 
wounds  to  torture,  or  to  help  kill.  What  cares  the  rumseller 
for  that  ?  A  sixpence  more  is  wanted  to  make  up  the  dollar 
already  expended,  and,  although  both  mother  and  child  were 
to'perish  by  a  thousand  tortures,  the  rumseller  must  have  that 
coveted  sixpence ! 


408  BOSTON     COMMON. 

Twelve  o'clock  !  Every  stroke  sounded  deep  into  my  heart ; 
for  I  had,  by  the  increasing  illness  of  my  babe,  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  it  had  but  a  few  more  hours  to  live. 

Hark!  the  door  opens,  —  a  blast  of  wind  enters  with  my 
husband,  who  tugs  and  works  his  way  slowly  up  stairs.  He 
enters  the  nursery.  Alas  !  what  a  sickening  sight  for  a  wife 
and  mother !  —  he  is  too  much  intoxicated  to  recognize  the 
sufferers  before  him.  He  stares  vacantly  around  the  room, 
and  then  falls  heavily  upon  a  chair. 

I  laid  my  babe  into  the  cradle,  and  approached  my  husband. 
There  must  have  been  something  frightful  in  my  eyes,  for  his 
own  dilated  with  fear  as  he  raised  them  towards  me. 

"  Ernest !  "  said  he,  "  have  you  come  at  last  for  Helen  ? 
Take  her,  but  do  not  kill  me  ! " 

"  Where  is  the  doctor  ?  "  said  I. 

"I  —  don't  know  anything  about  the  doctor,"  he  answered. 

"  The  doctor,  Roland,  for  our  dying  child ! "  almost 
screamed  I.  "  Where  is  the  doctor  I  sent  you  for,  some  hours 
since  ?  " 

"  I  don't  —  don't  know,"  he  slowly  articulated,  "  anything 
about  the  doc  —  doctor;  but  here  is  the  bot  —  bottle." 

He  pulled  a  small  vial  from  his  pocket,  that  he  had  taken 
with  him  to  get  some  medicine  in.  I  seized  it  eagerly.  Alas ! 
it  had  been  broken  in  one  of  his  drunken  falls,  and  his  pockets 
were  already  fragrant  with  its  contents. 

I  left  him,  and,  rushing  to  the  window,  threw  it  up.  The 
wind  was  blowing  keenly  from  the  north-east,  and  the  snow 
cutting  its  way  through  the  air  in  haste  and  abundance. 

"  I  must,  yes,  I  must  go  out,"  said  I,  "  and  find  aid  for  my 
suffering  child,  if  I  perish  in  the  attempt." 


BOSTON     COMMON.  409 

I  glanced  at  the  babe.  It  lay  still  in  the  cradle,  and  seemed 
to  be  in  a  gentle  sleep,  induced,  probably,  by  weariness  and 
exhaustion. 

"  I  must  not,"  thought  I,  "  leave  that  drunken  man  with 
my  babe.  He  will,  perhaps,  fall  upon  it,  during  my  absence, 
and  kill  it.  What  shall  I  do  ?  0,  I  have  it,  —  I  will  try 
and  sober  him,  if  the  thing  is  possible." 

I  coaxed  Roland  to  go  with  me  to  the  kitchen.  He  was 
very  much  opposed  to  moving ;  but  at  last  I  laid  my  hand 
upon  his  shoulder,  looked  him  sternly  in  the  face,  and  said, 
"  If  you  do  not  come  now,  I  will  kill  you  !  " 

He  arose,  and,  by  almost  superhuman  strength,  I  forced 
him  to  the  kitchen.  From  utter  exhaustion,  he  sunk  immedi 
ately  to  the  floor ;  while  I  rushed  to  the  pump,  drew  a  pail  of 
water,  and  dashed  it  quickly  over  him.  The  same  experiment 
was  again  repeated.  Then,  snatching  my  bonnet  and  cloak,  and 
glancing  at  the  cradle,  I  ran  quickly  down  stairs,  and  opened 
the  hall-door. 

The  sleet  met  me  with  a  smothering  shower  of  kisses ;  but 
I  waded  on,  although  the  snow  was  nearly  up  to  my  waist, 
and  I  had  to  move  the  whole  power  of  my  body  against  it. 
Two  or  three  times  I  was  half  inclined  to  turn  back  and  die 
with  my  child ;  but  the  thoughts  of  his  sufferings  urged  me 
forward. 

Beyond  the  yard,  the  snow  was  not  more  than  half  as  deep ; 
but  it  was  so  very  dark  that  I  could  discern  nothing  but  a 
feeble  light  in  the  distance.  I  approached  it  in  as  much 
haste  as  possible,  for  I  remembered  that  life  and  death  de 
pended  upon  my  mission.  I  reached  it  at  last,  and,  leaning 
heavily  against  the  door,  fell  in,  nearly  out  of  breath. 
35 


410  BOSTON     COMMON. 

A  man  suddenly  sprang  forward  to  my  relief.  It  was  ac 
old  acquaintance,  and,  although  a  devotee  to  the  shrine  of 
Bacchus,  one  whom  I  had  regarded  for  years  as  a  friend. 

"  Good  Heavens  !  Mrs.  Hastings  !  Is  it  possible  ?"  said  he. 
"  What  brings  you  here,  on  such  a  fearful  night  ?  Are  you 
out  of  your  senses  ?  " 

He  raised  me  to  my  feet.  I  looked  at  him  a  moment.  "  0, 
Mr.  Merriman,"  said  I,  in  a  voice  of  agony,  "  my  child  is  very 
ill,  perhaps  dying  !  —  go  at  once,  and  without  a  question,  for 
the  doctor.  Tell  him  to  come,  and  to  come  instantly.  Do 
not  delay ;  but  go,  in  Heaven's  name  !  " 

"And  you?"  he  said,  anxiously" 

"  Never  mind  me,  but  go  immediately,"  said  I. 

Mr.  Merriman  had  a  kind  heart ;  and,  turning  to  a  large, 
red-faced  man,  he  said, 

"  Mr.  Douglas,  take  care  of  this  lady  until  I  return ;  and 
do  not  let  her  venture  out  of  doors  alone,  by  any  means,  for 
she  will  surely  perish.  I  will  see  her  safely  home,  when  I 
come  from  the  doctor's." 

"  Mr.  Douglas  !  "  thought  I ;  "  then  where  am  I  ?  0, 1  see, 
—  in  the  miserable  den  where  my  husband  spends  his  time 
and  money ! " 

The  man  approached  me.  "  My  friend,"  said  he,  "  will  you 
have  a  chair,  and  something  warm  to  take  ?  " 

His  words  were  kind,  but  a  suddden  gush  of  feeling  came 
over  me  at  the  word  "  friend  ;  "  —  calling  me,  whom  he  had 
caused  so  much  suffering,  by  such  an  endearing  title !  I 
turned  slowly  towards  him.  A  deep  sense  of  the  injuries 
which  he  had  inflicted  upon  me  filled  my  bosom  almost  to 
bursting.  I  felt  my  quick,  passionate  temper,  which  Ernest, 


BOSTON     COMMON.  411 

my  mother,  Harry,  and  myself,  had  striven  all  our  lives  to 
govern, —  that  I  had  struggled  and  prayed,  so  often,  to  be 
kept  from  indulging,  — rising;  and  all  the  fiercer  because  of 
its  long  subjection.  The  blood  was  coursing  through  my 
veins,  and  almost  scorching  my  limbs  with  its  heat ;  my  eyes 
were  glittering  with  rage,  and  a  long-accumulated  list  of 
sufferings. 

I  thought  of  the  time  when  I  was  a  happy  wife  ;  when  my 
husband,  who  now  lay  at  home  in  a  state  more  fit  for  a  beast 
than  a  man,  was  happy,  affectionate,  and  loved  me  fondly.  I 
thought  of  that  fearful  night  when,  but  for  the  interposition  of 
Divine  Providence,  we  both  should  have  been  swept  into  eter 
nity.  And,  lastly,  I  thought  of  my  beautiful  boy,  from  whose 
side  this  wretch  had  kept  the  father,  this  very  night,  for  so  many 
hours,  and  who  might,  even  now,  be  dying  or  dead  through 
his  means  —  and  in^another  moment  I  forgot  iny  child,  forgot 
Harry,  forgot  God,  and  the  faith  which  I  professed ;  and, 
seizing  an  immense  club  of  wood,  with  one  blow,  from  an 
arm  made  powerful  by  desperation,  felled  Douglas  to  the 
ground ! 

He  fell,  groaning  heavily,  and  I  saw  the  blood  settle  in  a 
purple  current  around  the  wound,  exactly  as  I  had  seen  it  in 
my  dream  of  Roland.  The  men  gathered  around,  with  horror 
depicted  in  their  countenances. 

"  Have  you  killed  him  ?  "  said  they,  in  suppressed  tones  of 
fear. 

"  I  hope  so  !  "  I  replied.  "  I  would  that  I  could  root  every 
rumseller  from  the  earth,  by  the  same  means !  You  have 
made  me  suffer,"  I  continued,  gazing  vacantly  at  my  victim, 
"  more  anguish  than  tongue  can  tell ;  you  have  robbed  me 


412  BOSTON      COMMON. 

of  fortune,  love,  and  all  I  held  most  dear  ;  and  now  lie 
there,  base  scoundrel  that  you  are,  and  welter  in  your  own 
blood  !  " 

The  bystanders  were  too  much  amazed  to  make  many  com 
ments,  but  stood  around  in  sad  groups,  scarcely  knowing 
what  to  do.  A  few  moments  of  perfect  silence  ensued,  and 
then  came  a  revulsion  of  feeling.  The  idea  that  I  was  a 
murderer  fell  with  a  deadening  weight  upon  my  heart,  and 
with  one  bound  I  reached  the  side  of  my  victim. 

He  had  unclosed  his  eyes,  being  only  stunned  a  few  mo 
ments  by  the  blow,  and  was  gazing  fearfully  around  him. 
Seeing  that  he  still  lived,  and  was  scarcely  injured  by  my 
feeble  hand,  the  image  of  my  sick  child  arose  before  me,  and 
I  prepared  to  depart.  Before  doing  so,  however,  I  fixed  my 
dark-gray  eyes  full  upon  his  face,  and  said : 

"  You  have  robbed  me  of  all  I  held  dear  in  this  world,  — 
of  fortune,  husband,  happiness ;  and,  not  content  with  your 
cruel  work,  you  sought  his  life.  Yes,  base  murderer  that 
you  are,  you  beguiled  him  into  your  infamous  den  with  soft 
words,  you  poured  the  distilled  poison  into  his  veins  until 
you  made  him  a  senseless  idiot,  then  led  him  to  the  pier  of 
the  bridge,  where  you  left  him  to  perish  alone,  in  the  se 
crecy  and  darkness  of  night.  But  God  defeated  your  Satanic 
plan,  and  appointed  him  a  savior,  else  we  had  both  per 
ished,  and  by  your  hand,  too.  And  now,  sir,  I  have  been 
avenged.  I  have  given  you  a  scar  that  you  will  carry  to 
your  grave.  Whenever  you  look  upon  it,  consider  it  the 
brand  of  rumseller  and  murderer.  Now,  dare,  sir,  ever 
again  to  assail  my  husband,  or  dare  to  sell  your  poison  again 
in  this  town,  and  I  will  publicly  brand  you  as  felon ;  I  will 
pursue  and  impoverish  you,  even  as  you  have  me." 


BOSTON     COMMON.  413 

With  these  words  I  turned,  and,  leaving  the  shop,  pre 
pared  once  more  to  face  the  cutting  blast.  The  men  followed, 
and  one  of  them  asked  me,  respectfully,  if  I  would  take  his 
arm.  I  accepted  of  his  kindness,  and  in  a  few  moments 
arrived  at  the  gate  of  my  own  yard.  He  did  not  leave  me 
here,  but,  lifting  me  in  his  arms,  carried  me  safely  through 
those  huge  drifts,  and  placed  me  within  my  own  door.  As  I 
thanked  him,  and  turned  to  go  up  stairs,  he  said  : 

"  Pardon  me,  Mrs.  Hastings,  but  your  prompt,  energetic 
action  to-night  has  made  a  sober  man  of  me.  I  see  now,  as 
in  a  glass,  all  the  misery  of  which  rum  is  the  cause ;  and  I 
will  never  touch  another  drop  while  I  live,  so  help  me 
Heaven ! " 

"  I  trust  that  God  will  preserve  you  in  tliat  resolution," 
said  I,  as  I  ran  hastily  up  stairs  to  the  nursery.  I  entered, 
and  the  first  object  I  beheld  was  Roland,  seated  in  his  dress 
ing-gown,  with  little  Willie  in  his  arms.  He  looked  eagerly 
at  me. 

"  0,  Helen  !  "  said  he,  "  where,  in  Heaven's  name,  have  you 
been,  this  fearful  night?  " 

He  was  perfectly  sober.  My  experiment  had  been  a  suc 
cessful  one.  The  doctor  soon  entered,  accompanied  by  Mr. 
Merriman.  He  felt  the  child's  pulse  and  hands,  and  seemed 
not  much  alarmed.  I  looked  anxiously  in  his  face  to  read 
his  opinion. 

"  Mrs.  Hastings,"  said  he,  "  your  child  has  considerable 
fever ;  but  I  think  it  can  be  easily  subdued,  as  it  has  been 
brought  on  by  teething  principally." 

He  remained  the  rest  of  the  night ;  and  so  effectual  were 
the  measures  we  resorted  to,  that  the  next  morning  the  child 
35* 


414  BOSTON     COMMON. 

fell  into  a  refreshing  slumber,  and  was  pronounced  quite  out 
of  danger. 

In  a  few  more  days  my  darling  Willie  was  entirely  well, 
and  playing  about  the  floor  as  merrily  as  ever. 

Singular  and  uncommon  as  was  the  affair  at  the  rumseller's 
shop,  it  was,  on  account  of  my  trouble  and  sufferings,  hushed 
up  almost  immediately. 

Every  one  seemed  rejoiced  that  that  den  of  iniquity  had 
been  broken  up ;  for  it  had  stood  there  a  long  time,  and  had 
beguiled  many  a  man  from  his  home  and  family.  It  had 
taken  the  bread  from  many  a  starving  child's  mouth,  and 
caused  the  poor  mother  hours  of  untold  misery.  But  it  was 
now  broken  up,  and  forever. 

Douglas  was  confined  to  his  house  for  a  few  days  with  his 
wound,  and  then  left  for  parts  unknown.  He  was  ashamed 
and  afraid  to  remain  longer  in  the  town  where  he  had  been 
braved  by  a  woman,  and  branded  as  a  murderer.  Before 
leaving,  however,  he  called  upon  me,  and,  begging  my  par 
don  for  the  many  ills  he  had  caused  me,  said  that  I  had 
made  a  better  man  of  him,  and  that  he  should  never  sell  rum 
again.  He  had  an  ugly  scar  upon  his  forehead,  which  bid 
fair  to  keep  him  company  for  a  while. 

I  was  never  sorry  that  I  had  broken  up  that  detestable 
rum-shop  ;  for  I  had  been  the  means,  by  that  prompt  action, 
of  turning  many  whose  feet  had  been  long  going  down  the 
dark  road  of  death  to  the  light,  and  a  better  state  of  things 
was  soon  visible  in  my  beloved  birth-place.  Even  Roland 
himself  was  much  affected,  and  appeared  to  drink  less  than 
formerly. 


CHAPTER    XLI. 

"  Dissimulation 

Screened  her  dark  thoughts,  and  set  to  public  view 
A  specious  face  of  innocence  and  beauty." 

HOWE. 

ONE  morning,  in  the  beginning  of  April,  my  husband 
came  into  the  house,  and  with  such  a  cheerful,  happy  face  as 
I  had  not  seen  for  a  long  time. 

"  My  dear  Helen,"  said  he,  "  who,  think  you,  has  arrived 
at  the  Linden  House  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  indeed  —  who,  Roland  ?  " 

"  Why,  my  dear  old  friend  you  have  so  often  heard  me 
speak  of —  Mrs.  Grace  Warrington.  She  has  lost  her  hus 
band,  and  has  come  to  pass  the  summer  in  our  delightful 
little  village.  She  is  exceedingly  anxious  to  spend  a  short 
time  here  with  us.  Could  n't  we  contrive  to  have  her,  my 
dear?" 

"  I  have  no  objections,  Roland ;  but  I  should  be  very 
mucft  ashamed  to  have  a  lady  in  the  house,  and  you  not 
able  to  sit  at  breakfast  with  us.  You  understand  me,  my 
dear  ?  " 

"  O,  Helen  !  only  let  her  come,  and  I  will  act  the  gentle 
man.  I  will  eschew  drinking,  gambling,  profane  language, 


416  BOSTON     COMMON. 

—  anything  you  wish ;  and,  Helen,  you  should  have  a  girl  to 
assist  you  —  you  look  weary.  Let  me  see,  —  0,1  will  help 
you,  and  we  will  be  so  snug !  This  Mrs.  Warrington  is  one 
of  the  dearest  friends  I  ever  had.  Her  sudden  advent  among 
us  has  caused  me  to  feel  happier  than  I  have  done  for  many 
a  long  day." 

"  Well,  Roland,  I  am  very  glad  there  is  anything  that  can 
reform  you.  I  will  prepare  her  room  immediately,  and  you 
can  go  and  fetch  her." 

Who  was  this  Mrs.  Grace  Warrington,  whom  my  hus 
band  seemed  to  think  so  very  much  of,  and  who  had 
power  to  almost  make  the  leopard  change  his  spots?  Wo 
shall  see. 

In  the  afternoon  she  arrived  in  a  carriage  with  my  hus 
band.  He  almost  lifted  her  from  it ;  and  I  noticed  that  she 
leaned  very  affectionately  upon  his  arm  as  they  came  up  the 
walk  together.  Roland  presented  Mrs.  Grace  to  me.  I 
looked  at  her,  and  almost  started  in  surprise  at  her  wondrous 
beauty. 

I  had  often  heard  Roland  speak  of  her  in  strong  terms 
of  admiration ;  but  never  until  now  had  I  beheld  anything 
so  beautiful.  She  was  slightly  above  the  middle  height,  and 
symmetrically  made.  Her  arms  and  hands  "were  faultless  in 
their  shape  and  make ;  her  finely-shaped  head  was  covered 
with  a  profusion  of  long  golden  curls,  that  hurig  over  her 
shoulders  in  wavy  softness ;  her  complexion  had  the  darling 
fairness  of  alabaster,  and  her  eyes  were  blue  as  the  heavens ; 
her  mouth  was  small,  and  always  had  a  sweet  smile  playing 
about  it,  which  gave  her  the  appearance  of  possessing  an 
affectionate  heart. 


BOSTON     COMMON.  417 

As  beautiful  as  I  at  first  sight  thought  her,  I  soon  wearied 
of  the  monotony  of  her  ever-smiling  face.  There  was  no 
light  and  shade,  no  expression.  She  was  forever  languid, 
forever  drooping,  and  seemed  to  be  always  wearied  and  want 
ing  to  rest. 

"  Is  she  not  beautiful,"  said  Roland,  —  "  beautiful  as  a 
dream?" 

"  Very  beautiful,  Roland ;  but  her  face  lacks  expression 
and  energy.  She  is  too  soft  in  her  manners  for  this  cold 
world." 

"  0,  I  do  not  like  too  much  expression  in  a  woman.  I  dis 
like  to  see  a  lady  so  fiery,  so  energetic." 

"  Poor  thing  !  "  thought  I;  "  I  know  not  what  would  have 
become  of  you,  if  you  had  had  this  languid  beauty  about  you 
all  the  while." 

Mrs.  Grace  Warrington  was  surely  a  very  helpless  person. 
She  could  never  walk  from  the  parlor  to  the  dining-room 
without  assistance ;  could  not  stir  the  fire,  shut  the  door,  or 
even  pick  up  her  handkerchief,  if  she  dropped  it.  She  was 
very  affectionate  towards  both  Willie  and  myself,  but  never 
seemed  Jjuite  happy  unless  Roland  was  by  her  side.  He 
would  sit  for  hours  with  her  upon  the  sofa,  turning  the  leaves 
of  her  book,  fanning,  or  conversing  with  her  in  a  low,  sub 
dued  voice.  She  could  scarcely  drag  her  delicate  frame 
from  the  sofa  to  the  window,  and  of  course  never  without 
Roland's  assistance.  But  he  was  constantly  at  her  com 
mand,  —  sometimes  conversing,  and  sometimes  gazing  long 
and  earnestly  into  the  beauty's  face.  At  these  moments  she 
would  always  pretend  to  be  asleep  ;  for,  assuming  a  graceful 
attitude,  she  would  lay  her  head  upon  the  sofa-pillow, 


418  BOSTON     COMMON. 

arrange  the  long  golden  tresses  so  that  they  would  float 
around  her  in  waves,  and  softly  close  her  eyes  beneath 
their  heavy  fringes.  0,  yes  !  she  was  wondrously  beautiful, 
as  Roland  had  said  ;  and  there  was  such  a  change  in  him 
for  the  better,  that  I  was  very  glad  she  had  come,  and  used 
every  exertion  to  make  her  visit  agreeable. 

lloland  was  always  at  home  now,  always  sober,  and  always 
cheerful ;  but  I  did  not  get  the  promised  assistance.  He 
never  strayed  so  far  as  the  kitchen ;  for  how  could  he  possi 
bly  leave  our  guest,  when  his  presence  gave  her  so  much 
pleasure  ?  - 

I  was  very  well  content  to  let  the  old  friends  remain 
together ;  for  my  husband  was  fast  regaining  his  former  good 
looks,  and  when  Mrs.  Grace  had  been  there  a  month,  I  should 
scarcely  have  known  him. 

Now  was  the  time  for  him  to  commence  the  garden.  Mrs. 
Grace  was  in  ecstasies  when  he  put  on  his  straw  hat,  and 
declared  that  she  must  have  one  immediately,  to  keep  her  own 
plain  features  from  the  scorching  sun,  while  she  accompanied 
him  in  his  gardening  toils. 

A  straw  hat  was  accordingly  obtained,  with  a  broad  blue 
ribbon  to  decorate  the  crown.  But  Mrs.  Grace  could  not 
conceive  the  right  way  it  should  be  worn.  She  therefore 
placed  it  awry  upon  her  head ;  but  she  looked  so  sweetly 
arch  and  girlish,  that  lloland  advised  her  to  wear  it  so 
always;  but  she  insisted,  with  such  melting  tones,  that  he 
should  show  her  how  to  wear  it  properly,  that,  in  a  sudden 
fit  of  generosity,  he  set  it  aright,  and  himself  arranged  the 
luxuriant  tresses.  It  took  him  a  long  time,  however,  to  tie 
the  ribbon  and  arrange  the  curls ,  but  he  exercised  patience, 


BOSTON     COMMON.  419 

and,  when  he  had  at  length  concluded  the  task,  she  thanked 
him  with  so  much  sweetness  and  naivete,  that  he  no  doubt 
felt  well  repaid  for  his  trouble. 

Then  how  prettily  did  she  look,  as  she  carried  the  little 
packages  of  seed,  while  Roland  sowed  them  into  the  beds  he 
had  neatly  arranged ;  and  when  she  looked  up  into  his  face 
and  asked  him  if  that  paper  marked  "  beet-seeds  "  were  very 
beautiful  flowers,  or  if  those  "  onion-tops  "  at  all  resembled 
geraniums,  she  was  perfectly  irresistible  ! 

Well,  they  planted  the  garden,  and  roamed  through  the 
fields  and  pastures,  day  after  day,  although  Mrs.  Grace  was 
obliged,  from  sheer  weariness,  to  lean  her  whole  weight  upon 
her  companion.  He  bore  all  this  very  cheerfully,  however ; 
and  you  would  have  thought,  from  his  beaming  countenance 
as  he  supported  her  trembling,  delicate  form,  the  task  was 
rather  agreeable  than  otherwise. 

Mrs.  Grace  had  an  exceedingly  delicate  appetite.  She 
wanted  hot  toast,  dry  toast,  and  cracker  toast,  made  in  the 
morning,  that  she  might  test  them  all,  and  take  her  choice 
therefrom.  Then  her  coffee  was  too  strong,  or  too  weak ; 
or  she  would  prefer  a  cup  of  cocoa,  or  a  glass  of  milk. 
Then  the  tiniest  bit  of  beef-steak,  only  warmed  through,  or 
an  egg  softly  boiled,  she  would  fancy.  And  when  I  had 
procured  all  these  for  my  guest,  she  would  look  up,  with  those 
sweet  eyes  half  suffused  in  tears,  and  ask,  in  the  most  piteous 
of  tones,  if  she  was  any  trouble ;  for,  if  she  was  the  least 
in  the  world,  she  should  be  so  inconsolable,  so  miserable  ! 
Then  Roland  would  fly  around  to  her,  and  exclaim,  — 

"  Dear  Grace,  it  is  a  pleasure  and  delight  for  both  Helen 
and  myself  to  be  of  the  smallest  possible  service  to  you ; " 


420  BOSTON     COMMON. 

and  once,  in  the  excitement  of  the  moment,  he  called  her 
"  angel."  She  apologized  to  me,  however,  instantly,  by  say 
ing  that  he  was  probably  thinking  of  their  dear  old  school 
days,  when  all  her  playmates,  for  some  unaccountable  reason, 
gave  her  this  pretty  title. 

"  Dear  Roland,"  said  she,  tenderly,  "  I  should  have  sup 
posed  you  would  have  forgotten  that,  long  ago." 

"  Forgotten !  "  said  Roland ;  "  I  might  as  well " 

What  "  he  might  as  well  "  was  never  known ;  for,  just  at 
that  unlucky  moment,  Willie  upset  his  cup  of  milk  and 
water  into  Mrs.  Grace's  lap.  She  shrieked  in  wild  affright, 
and  refused  for  a  long  time  to  be  comforted.  Willie  was 
very  sorry  for  the  accident,  however ;  at  least,  he  looked 
so,  and  we  were  all  sorry ;  and  so,  with  the  most  amiable 
of  dispositions,  she  forgave  him,  and  called  him  a  "  dear, 
little,  careless  wretch  !  "  a  "  sweet,  little,  wicked  child  !  "  and 
many  other  endearing  epithets. 

Nothing  was  half  good  enough  for  her,  in  Roland's 
opinion.  He  would  search  the  brooks  around,  in  eve*y 
direction,  for  the  most  delicate  fish  for  her  dinner,  because 
her  stomach  was  too  weak  to  take  meat.  And  then  we 
must  cook  them  in  just  such  a  manner,  or  she  could  not 
eat  them,  after  all.  If  she  wanted  a  nice  lunch  in  the  fore 
noon,  the  whole  neighborhood  around  must  be  searched  for 
some  tit-bit  with  which  to  regale  her  palate. 

Grace  once  asked  for  a  certain  novel,  and  Roland 
walked  miles  over  a  broken,  dusty  road,  to  obtain  it  for 
her.  The  book  was  found,  at  last,  at  an  old  farm-house, 
after  an  incredible  amount  of  trouble ;  and  Roland  re 
warded  by  a  sweet  smile,  an  outstretched,  lily-white  hand, 


BOSTON     COMMON.  421 

and  the   epithets   of  a  "  nice  boy ! "    "a  dear,  foolish  old 
friend ! " 

What  a  reward !     What  man  is  there  in  the  wide  world 
who  would  not  risk  his  life,  his  all,  to  be  the  recipient  of 
such  sweet  smiles,  of  such  endearing  words  ? 
36 


CHAPTER    XLII. 

"  She  had  been  taught 

The  art  of  courts  ;  to  gild  a  face  with  smiles, 
And  lure  a  man  to  ruin." 

MBS.  GRACE  at  length  grew  weary  of  her  dull  life,  and  so 
got  up  a  little  excitement,  by  way  of  variety. 

She  was  suddenly  taken  ill  —  very  ill,  indeed  !  She  fell 
back  upon  the  sofa,  closed  her  eyes,  and  drew  a  long,  shiv 
ering  breath.  Roland  sprang  instantly  to  her  relief,  while  I 
ran  for  cold  water,  camphor,  salts,  etc. 

She  soon  revived  under  a  powerful  administration  of  these 
remedies,  but  was  still  very  weak.  She  could  eat  nothing, 
drink  nothing,  and  in  the  evening  seemed  to  be  slightly  de 
ranged.  She  would  clutch  her  beautiful  hair  nervously,  and 
threaten  to  tear  it  from  her  head.  Then,  as  Iloland  would 
seem  so  distressed,  and  take  her  hands  gently  down,  she  would 
look  up  so  tenderly  in  his  face,  and  sigh  so  piteously,  that  she 
nearly  broke  the  poor  fellow's  heart. 

And  then  came  three  long  days  when  she  could  not  rise 
from  the  sofa,  but  lay  like  a  sweet  flower,  looking  so  pale 
and  drooping,  so  pensively  interesting,  that  it  gave  one  the 
heart-ache  to  see  her. 


BOSTON      COMMON.  423 

And  how  patiently  did  Roland  sit  by  her  side  all  day ! 
He  never  left  her  for  a  moment.  His  hand  alone  arranged 
the  pillow,  and  presented  the  soothing  draught ;  for,  with  the 
wilfulness  of  an  invalid,  she  would  reject  everything,  however 
simple,  from  me. 

And  when  she  was  convalescing,  how  beautifully  did  she 
look  in  that  darkened  room  !  The  golden  tresses,  floating  in 
wild  disorder  about  the  fair  temples,  and  displaying  the  snowy 
forehead,  with  its  delicate  tracery  of  vein-work ;  the  eyes, 
soft,  sweet,  dreamy,  and  with  so  much  of  a  subdued  mourn- 
fulness  in  them  as  to  fill  the  beholder  with  love  and  pity  ! 

While  Roland  was  hanging  over  her  couch,  I  was  in  the 
kitchen,  employed  in  preparing  all  sorts  of  nice  things,  in 
order  to  tempt  the  invalid's  appetite.  A  little  gruel  was 
first  tried.  She  tasted  it,  —  declared  it  was  horrible,  —  that 
the  meal  had  not  been  sifted,  &c.,  —  and  turned  away  her 
face  from  it  in  disgust. 

Roland  was  surprised  that  I  could  so  far  forget  myself 
as  to  treat  their  distinguished  guest  in  such  a  manner.  I 
departed,  and  made  some  blanc-mange.  This  was  done  jus 
tice  to  by  the  lady  ;  she  was  persuaded,  by  dint  of  coaxing,  to 
eat  a  little  of  it.  Then  she  must  have  some  beef-tea,  rice- 
water,  and  barley-soup.  At  a  deal  of  trouble  I  procured  all 
these  for  our  guest,  and  was  rewarded  by  seeing  her  eat 
heartily  of  them. 

At  length,  after  the  greatest  care  and  trouble  had  been 
expended,  Mrs.  Grace  arose  from  her  couch,  and  was  able 
to  sit  in  the  easy-chair  j  but  her  nerves  were  so  very  much 
unstrung,  and  her  head  so  tender,  that  the  slightest  noise 
disturbed  her.  Roland  must  never  come  into  the  room  with 


424  BOSTON     COMMON. 

his  boots  on  ;  indeed,  he  must  not  wear  them  in  any  part  of 
the  house,  for  -  she  could  hear  them  ever  so  far.  The  piano 
must  be  closed,  the  windows  shut  to  exclude  the  noise  from 
the  street,  and  all  must  move  around  her  as  softly  as  possible. 
If,  by  any  mistake,  I  chanced  to  come  quickly  into  the  room, 
she  would  shrink  into  the  smallest  dimensions,  and  receive  me 
with  a  suffering  "  0  !  " 

Do  what  we  could  to  keep  quiet,  however,  there  was  one 
thing  we  could  not  possibly  subdue,  and  that  was  Willie. 
He  was  a  fine,  healthy  child,  and  loved  to  run  all  about  the 
house,  and  make  a  great  noise.  He  would  chase  the  kittens 
from  attic  to  cellar,  and  drum  on  every  tin-pan  he  came  to. 
Everything  had  to  jingle  that  he  approached  ;  and  sometimes 
he  would  get  the  dinner-bell,  and  ring  it  all  over  the  house. 

Mrs.  Grace  bore  all  this  as  long  as  she  could,  poor  thing, 
and  then  complained  grievously  of  it  to  Roland.  He  tried 
to  still  the  child  by  every  means  in  his  power ;  but  it  was 
like  trying  to  still  the  wind  —  all  to  no  purpose.  He  then 
threatened  to  whip  him ;  but  Willie  was  so  young  he  scarcely 
knew  what  that  meant,  and  played  and  jumped  about  as  hard 
as  ever. 

Roland,  at  length  out  of  all  manner  of  patience  with 
Willie,  came  to  me.  "  Helen,"  said  he,  with  considerable 
asperity,  "  cannot  you  keep  that  child  still  ?  " 

"  No,"  I  replied,  "  I  cannot,  and  I  do  not  wish  to." 

"  Don't  wish  to,  when  our  poor  Grace  is  so  very  ill  that 
his  continual  clatter  almost  kills  her  ?  " 

"  No ;  I  don't  want  my  child  to  sit  down  and  keep  dull 
and  sober.  I  should  think  he  was  sick,  or  unhappy." 

"  Well,  then,  Willie  must  be  sent  out  of  the  house  until 


BOSTON     COMMON.  425 

Mrs.  Warrington  recovers ;  for  to  have  him  scampering  about, 
and  thakdear  girl  so  ill,  is  out  of  the  question." 

A  little  of  my  temper  now  rose  in  my  face.  The  idea  of 
my  darling  child  being  sent  away  from  his  home,  and  from 
me,  his  mother,  for  the  sake  of  a  stranger,  and  nobody  knew 
who,  was  rather  more  than  I  could  bear  patiently.  I  turned 
to  my  husband  and  said  : 

"  Willie  will  remain  just  where  he  is.  If  Mrs.  Warring- 
ton's  nerves  are  too  fihely  strung  to  bear  his  infant's  play, 
she  can  go  to  a  hotel,  where  she  can  be  better  accommo 
dated." 

Roland  was  surprised.  "  How  very  coarse  you  are, 
Helen  !  "  said  he,  —  "  so  entirely  different  from  the  elegant 
and  refined  Mrs.  Warrington.  I  should  suppose  you  might 
keep  Willie  quiet  by  candy,  or  something." 

"  My  child,"  I  replied,  "  is  not  going  to  eat  candy  all  day 
to  please  Mrs.  Warrington ;  neither  shall  I  check  him  in  his 
natural  play.  I  wish  him  to  be  merry  and  happy,  not  dull 
and  moying." 

Roland  left  me,  very  much  dissatisfied,  and  scarcely  hon 
ored  me  by  either  a  word  or  look  for  a  week  afterwards. 

Time  went  on,  and  the  middle  of  June  arrived.  I  had  by 
this  time  become  thoroughly  acquainted  with  my  guest,  and 
disliked  her  heartily.  I  tolerated  her  nonsense,  endured  her 
sarcasms,  and  humored  her  whims,  however,  for  the  sake  of 
Roland.  He  was  so  changed  —  so  very  much  like  his  former 
self;  but  at  length,  although  the  whole  town  knew  it  before 
I  did,  the  truth  began  to  dawn  upon  me. 

I  saw'that  he  was  forever  with  her ;  that  he  was  always 
talking  of  her  wondrous  beauty,  and  that  he  seldom  spoke 
36* 


426  BOSTON     COMMON. 

to  me,  unless  to  reprove  me  for  failing  in  some  point  towards 
her.  I  saw,  with  pain,  that  Roland,  jny  husband,  was  deeply, 
madly  in  love  with  Mrs.  Warriugton. 

It  was  a  long  time  ere  I  could  bring  myself  to  believe 
him  guilty  of  the  crime  of  loving  another;  but  at  length  I 
became  assured  of  it,  and  in  a  most  painful  manner.  They 
would  seem  to  regard  my  presence  as  a  barrier  to  their  hap 
piness,  and  would,  upon  my  arrival  into  the  room,  imme 
diately  suspend  all  conversation.  Of  course,  I  kept  aloof  as 
much  as  possible  ;  but  it  was  not  very  pleasant  to  sit  in  the 
nursery  or  kitchen  all  the  while,  and  have  a  stranger  occupy 
ing  your  place. 

I  was  now  seriously  at  a  loss  what  course  to  pursue. 
"  Must  I  sit  here  tamely,"  thought  I,  "  and  bear  all  this  ? 
No,  I  ought  not  —  it  is  wrong.  God  is  not  pleased  that  I 
should  allow  such  wickedness  to  proceed  under  my  own  roof." 

One  day,  towards  the  last  of  June,  feeling  very  lonely,  I 
strolled  into  the  garden.  There  was  an  arbor,  covered  with 
grape-vines,  in  one  corner  ;  and,  as  I  walked  softly  arpund  it, 
I  heard  voices  within.  The  tones  arrested  my  attention,  and 
for  the  life  of  me  I  could  not  move  from  the  spot. 

"  0,  Grace ! "  said  the  voice  of  my  husband,  "  can  it 
be  possible  that  I  do  not  dream  —  that  you  do  indeed  love 
me?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  soft  voice  of  Grace,  "  I  do  indeed 
love  and  fondly  adore  you." 

"  My  beautiful  one,  I  am  now  happy." 

"  But  your  wife,  Roland  ?  " 

"  Name  her  not,  my  charmer !  She  is  not  worthy  'of  being 
mentioned  with  your  fair  self.  She  will  never  know  of  our 


BOSTON      COMMON.  427 

loves,  for  she  is  entirely  unsuspicious  of  such  things,  and  we 
will  keep  her  in  the  kitchen  at  work  for  us,  while  we  will  — 
O,  my  Grace,  I  am  lost  in  happiness !  " 

"  But  Helen  !  "  persisted  Grace  ;  "  do  you  know,  dearest 
Roland,  when  I  see  her  dark,  keen  eye  fixed  upon  me,  that  I 
am  half  afraid  of  her?  "  And  she  clung  to  him. 

"  She  is  a  fiery  little  thing,"  said  my  sweet  husband,  —  "  as 
quick-tempered  as  a  high-mettled  horse ;  but,  should  she 
ever  dare  to  harm  a  hair  of  your  sweet  head  —  no,  my  G?ace, 
she  will  never  do  that." 

"  But,  0,  dear  Roland,  if  we  could  only  be  married !  " 
whined  Grace. 

"  And  so  we  will,  some  time,  my  dear.  Do  not  think  that 
1  am  going  to  pen  myself  up  here  forever,  with  that  religious 

wife  of  mine,  who  thinks  herself  a  saint,  and  all  the  world 

i 
sinners.     No,  my  Grace  ;  besides,  there  is  another  hope." 

"  What  is  it,  pray  ?  " 

"  Why,  Gracey,  Helen  is,  as  I  said  before,  a-  fiery  little 
spirit,  —  always  restless,  always  on  the  alert.  Well,  such 
people  as  she  do  not  generally  live  long.  They  almost  invari 
ably  fret  or  pine  themselves  to  death.  »With  a  little  of  our 
assistance,  Grace,  Helen  may,  and  must,  in  the  common  course 
of  things,  do  this;  and  then  for  marriage,  heaven,  and  you. 
But,  meantime,  my  adored  — " 

He  clasped  her  in  his  arms,  and  imprinted  kiss  after  kiss 
upon  her  cheeks,  while  she  lay  passive  as  an  infant. 

Horror  for  a  while  froze  me  to  the  spot.  My  husband's 
infidelity  had  crossed  my  mind  ;  but  to  see  him  sit  here  now, 
and  so  calmly  plan  my  death,  that  he  might  make  that  creat 
ure  the  mother  of  my  darling  Willie,  was  too  much. 


428  BOSTON     COMMON. 

I  stepped,  as  well  as  my  trembling  limbs  would  carry  me, 
before  them.  My  eyes  were  fixed  upon  my  husband,  and  my 
face  was  pale  as  death.  Grace  gave  a  scream,  and  fell  back, 
while  Roland  arose  suddenly  to  his  feet. 

"  Helen  here  ?  "  he  asked,  in  confusion. 

"Yes,  Koland,  I  am  here,"  I  answered,  with  perfect  calm 
ness.  "  I  have  heard  all  that  you  said,  and  am  come  to  tell 
you  that  you  are  free  —  free  from  all  ties  to  me  —  free  for 
ever.  You  can  take  that  thing,"  pointing  to  her,  "  and  go 
with  her  wherever  and  whenever  you  please,  only  as  far  out 
of  my  sight  as  possible.  I  will  never  trouble  either  of  you 
more." 

Eoland  was  pale  as  death.  A  little  of  his  old  feeling 
came  back.  "  Dearest  Helen,"  said  he,  "  do  not  talk  of 
parting,  —  I  cannot  bear  it.  I  cannot  live  without  you." 

I  calmly  smiled.  "  Roland,"  said  I,  "  I  have  just  heard 
you  repeat  vows  to  that  creature  which  you  shall  never  break 
for  me.  I. give  you  back  your  troth,  your  faith  ;  and,  tearing 
from  my  heart  every  vestige  of  fealty  it  once  owed  you,  go 
forth  once  more  into  the  world,  heart-whole  and  fancy-free.'' 

"  0,  say  not  so !  "  implored  Roland,  clasping  my  robe. 
"  Helen,  think  ;  would  you  leave  the  father  of  your  child  to 
die  of  grief?  Would  you  bring  anguish  and  desolation  upon 
our  home  and  hearth  ?  " 

"  I  would  leave  the  father  of  my  child,"  I  replied,  "  when 
that  father  is  a  base  villain,  —  when  to  the  sins  of  drunken 
ness,  gambling,  and  profanity,  he  adds  the  one  of  infidelity  to 
that  child's  mother.  I  cannot  bring  my  child  up  where  he 
will  breathe  the  air  of  vice  —  where  he  will  learn  every  bad 
thing  from  his  father.  You  talk  of  my  bringing  desolation 


BOSTON    COMMON.  429 

upon  my  home,  and  ask  if  I  will  leave  it.  The  ashes  in  that 
once  happy  spot  are  cold ;  the  fire  has  long  ago  gone  out. 
It  is  you  who  have  brought  desolation  and  ruin  into  our 
peaceful  dwelling.  It  is  you  who  have  filled  my  heart  with 
untold  misery.  And  now,  Roland,  farewell !  I  will  never 
«nter  that  house  again  with  you  ;  you  cannot  move  me  —  my 
resolution  is  fixed  and  firm." 

Roland  sank  back,  and  I  saw  him  weep  —  the  first  time  in 
many  a  long  day.  Grace  endeavored  to  comfort  him  ;  but  I 
left  them  before  I  ascertained  whether  she  had  succeeded  or 
not. 

I  returned  to  the  house,  packed  up  all  my  clothes,  and 
Willie's,  with  as  much  calmness  as  if  I  had  been  going  a  jour 
ney,  and,  taking  my  child  in  my  arms,  crossed  that  threshold 
over  whose  boundary  I  had  suffered  and  enjoyed  so  much  ;  — • 
and,  when  I  had  left  it,  I  never  crossed  it  again  ! 

I  proceeded  immediately  to  my  mother's,  who  received  me 
kindly,  and  inquired  the  cause  of  my  sad  looks.  I  informed 
her  in  as  few  words  as  possible,  while  she  wept  over  my 
sufferings. 

"  And  now,  dear  Helen,"  said  she,  "  you  and  little  Willie 
will  remain  here  always  —  will  you  not?" 

"  No,  mother,"  I  replied.  "  Linden  is  no  place  for  me 
now.  I  have  suffered  too  much  to  remain  here.  The  familiar 
places  and  scenes  would  but  remind  me  of  my  past  happiness, 
and  ^resent  wretchedness.  I  must  go  far  away  from  my 
birth-place ;  but  I  will  come  often  and  visit  you,  dearest 
mother." 


CHAPTER    XLIII. 

"  But,  when  black  Melancholy  sits  within  our  souls, 
She  round  us  throws  a  death-like  silence,  and  a  dread  repose  ; 
Her  gloomy  presence  saddens  all  the  scene, 
Shades  every  flower,  and  darkens  every  green  ; 
Deepens  the  murmur  of  the  falling  floods, 
And  breathes  a  browner  hue  o'er  all  the  woods." 

POPE. 

IN  one  week  from  the  events  related  in  the  last  chapter,  I 
had  arranged  everything,  and  found  myself  settled,  with  my 
child,  in  a  large,  comfortable  boarding-house,  in  Boston.  My 
room  was  small,  but  neat,  and  contained  everything  I  needed 
to  make  us  comfortable. 

And  now,  when  all  was  arranged,  I  had  time  to  look  back 
upon  my  past  life,  and  review  its  many  scenes  and  sorrows. 
Here  was  I,  young,  healthy,  with  a  warm  heart,  and  talents 
which,  if  directed  aright,  might  prove  a  blessing  to  me.  But, 
young  as  I  was,  and  as  free  from  sickness,  I  felt  as  if  a  great 
change  had  passed  over  me.  I  had  loved  warmly,  earnestly, 
and  been  betrayed.  The  ideal  of  my  dreams  had  fled  ;  and  I 
now  yeanjed  for  something  spiritual,  something  that  might  be 
as  lasting  as  eternity. 

It  was  the  last  of  June  when  I  arrived  in  Boston.  All  na 
ture  was  clothed  in  her  gorgeous  summer  dress.  Everything 


BOSTON     COMMON.  431 

was  smiling,  everything  happy,  but  me.  I,  alone,  seemed  like 
a  blot  upon  the  fair  landscape ;  I,  alone,  was  sad,  moody,  and 
pining. 

I  had  taken  lodgings  in  a  part  of  the  city  where  I  was  not 
known  ;  for  I  did  not  wis-h  to  see  a  person  whom  I  had  ever 
seen  before,  or  have  them  know  of  my  poverty  and  misery. 

It  was  just  four  years  since  I  had  parted  from  my  cousin 
Ernest;  four  years  since  I  last  walked  with  him  upon  the  Com 
mon  ;  four  years  since  we  had  prayed  together  by  Harry's 
grave  ;  four  years  since  I  had  listened  to  his  words  of  piety 
and  advice,  and  four  years  since  he  had  stood  by  my  side,  and 
poured  into  my  ear  all  those  deep  words  of  love,  and  yet,  with 
a  coal  upon  his  tongue,  had,  at  my  request,  given  me  up  to 
another.  But  it  had  not  been  done  without  an  answering 
pang.  Dark  words  had  then  been  whispered  in  my  ear,  which 
had  since  been  fulfilled  ;  and  yet  Ernest  was  no  prophet,  —  he 
was  no  soothsayer ;  but,  with  a  clear  eye,  he  had  looked-into 
Roland's  heart,  and  seen  the  man.  He  had  discovered  that, 
with  the  temptation  of  riches  and  bad  associates  around  him, 
he  would  surely  fall,  and  bring  both  himself  and  family  to 
ruin. 

Four  years  had  passed,  and  I  had  suffered,  0,  how  keenly ! 
I  had  watched  the  progress  of  the  drunkard,  as  he  advanced 
step  by  step  on  his  downward  career.  I  had  heard  him.  blas 
pheme  the  name  of  his  Maker,  —  had  seen  him  with  his  arms 
twined  about  another,  and  had  heard  him  whisper  unholy  vows 
of  love  into  her  willing  ears.  I  had  heard  and  seen  all  this, 
and  yet  I  lived  !  Four  years  before,  would  I  have  thought  it 
possible  that  I  could  have  endured  so  much,  and  still  lived? 

I  had  plenty  of  leisure  now  to  think  of  a-11  these  things,  and 


432  BOSTON     COMMON. 

long  and  seriously  did  I  ponder  upon  them.  My  love,  m^ 
wild,  youthful  passion,  was  dead,  and  buried  deep  in  my  heart. 
I  never  wished  to  exhume  it  again  from  its  resting-place ;  and 
so  I  commanded  it  to  sleep,  and  sleep  forever. 

Ernest,  of  whom,  in  my  happiness,  I  had  scarcely  thought, 
now  recurred  repeatedly  to  my  memory.  I  thought  of  his  grief 
the  morning  I  left  him  forever.  I  had  seen  emotion  shaking 
that  strong  frame ;  and  I  now  fully  felt  and  understood  the  cause 
and  power  of  all  this  sorrow.  "  And,  0,"  thought  I,  "  I  have 
condemned  him  to  a  life  of  sorrow  !  He  is,  and  for  my  sake, 
a  wanderer.  He  said  that  I  should  make  him  a  gloomy  mis 
anthrope  ;  —  that  can  hardly  be,  for  Ernest  is  a  Christian,  and, 
as  such,  is  doing  his  Master's  will." 

"  I  wonder  where  he  is ! "  thought  I,  the  first  time  for 
many  years.  "  I  never  have  heard  his  name  or  whereabouts 
mentioned  since  he  departed  for  Europe.  Poor  Ernest !  per 
haps  he  has  perished  long  ago,  somewhere,  alone,  and  without 
the  aid  of  friends.  If  he  has,  I  am  the  cause  of  it.  A  bright 
and  shining  light  has  been  lost  to  the  world,  through  my  fool 
ish  wilfulness !  " 

It  was  very  strange  that  I  should  now  think  so  much  of 
Ernest.  His  image  was  continually  in  my  mind,  and  the  rec 
ollections  of  his  noble,  truthful  character  filled  my  soul  with 
admiration. 

From  dwelling  so  much  upon  Ernest,  from  mourning  over 
my  past  misfortunes  of  affection,  time  and  money  misspent,  I 
grew  very  sad  and  gloomy.  I  scarcely  tasted  fool,  read 
nothing,  seldom  went  out ;  but  sat,  hour  after  hour,  with  my 
head  leaning  upon  my  hand,  in  a  deep  revery. 

A  quiet  stupor  had  taken  possession  of  me,  which  all  my 


BOSTON     COMMON.  433 

efforts  to  avert  were  unavailing.  Even  the  playfulness  of  little 
Willie  was  unheeded.  I  paid  but  little  attention  to  him,  ex 
cepting  to  dress  and  give  him  his  food. 

The  people  in  the  house  noticed  my  grief,  and  whispered  to 
each  other  that  I  would  soon  be  at  rest;  and  sometimes  the 
thought  would  cross  my  own  mind  that  I  was  fading  away, — 
that  I  was  dying  ! 

The  only  places  I  ever  visited  were  the  Common  and 
Harry's  grave.  Once  or  twice  a  week,  Willie  and  myself 
would  spend  an  hour  or  two  in  this  sweet  spot.  The  child 
was  always  delighted ;  but  it  had  lost  its  charm  for  me.  I  no 
longer  enjoyed  a  bright  blue  sky,  a  smiling  landscape,  or  a 
moonlight  evening.  A  dark,  rainy  day  was  now  my  delight. 
I  loved  to  see  the  heavy  clouds  piling  themselves  one  above 
another,  and  vicing  with  each  other  which  should  be  blackest. 
I  loved  to  see  the  rain  pouring  in  big  drops  upon  the  earth, 
and  would  listen  eagerly  for  the  booming  thunder.  I  watched 
the  clouds  with  deep  interest,  as  they  parted  and  showed  the 
vivid  lightning  beyond,  and  laughed  when  I  heard  the  rain 
pattering  with  a  slow  and  mournful  sound  upon  my  window. 

When  the  heavens  were  black  with  clouds,  and  everything 
looked  drooping  and  pensive,  I  would  wander  out  upon  the 
Common.  I  loved  it  best  at  this  time,  for  I  was  alone.  No 
noisy  boys  and  girls,  shouting  in  tones  that  would  bring  re 
membered  joys  to  my  heart ;  no  lovers  dreaming  beneath  the 
shady  trees,  and  whispering  vows  to  each  other  that  might 
prove  false ;  none  of  the  busy  throng  that  usually  frequented 
this  place,  to  stare  at  the  poor,  heart-stricken  one;  not  a 
soul,  far  and  wide,  save  my  solitary  self.  And  then  I  would 
eagerly  watch  the  clouds,  and  wait  anxiously  for  the  rain ; 
37 


434  BOSTON     COMMON. 

and  when  it  came,  at  first  so  softly  that  you  could  hardly  feel 
it,  and  gradually  increased  in  strength  and  quantity,  I  would 
wander  up  and  down  the  mails,  with  my  garments  wet  and 
dripping,  and  eyes  sadly  filled  with  tears.  I  would  watch 
the  little  pond  as  it  filled  so  fast,  and  wonder  if  there  was,  or 
soon  would  be,  water  enough  in  it  to  drown  me.  I  would 
creep  softly  along  its  edge,  peer  anxiously  down  into  its 
depths,  and  start  on .  beholding  the  care-worn  face,  with  the 
humble  dress  and  bonnet,  that  met  mine.  I  would  then  ask 
myself  the  question : 

"  Is  that  the  once  rich  and  happy  Helen  Clifton,  — '  Nellie,' 
— '  little  Nell,'  —  as  cousin  Ernest,  and  hundreds  of  other 
affectionate  friends,  were  wont  to  call  her?  Do  that  white 
face,  these  sad  eyes,  and  that  drooping  figure,  belong  to  the 
once  happy  and  honored  Mrs.  Hastings  ?  "  And  then  I  would 
shudder,  and  think  it  might  be  all  a  dream,  and  that  I  might 
yet  awake  and  find  it  so. 

When  very  sad,  I  would  stand  by  the  old  cemetery  fence, 
and  watch  the  rain  as  it  washed  the  dust  from  the  head-stones, 
and  made  them  white '  and  clean.  My  rose-bush  had  grown 
very  large  and  luxuriant.  It  now  completely  covered  Harry's 
grave-stone,  so  that  I  could  scarcely  discern  the  inscription 
upon  it.  I  have  stood  and  watched  its  long  branches  as  the 
wind  swayed  them  backwards  and  forwards,  and  asked  myself 
who  would  plant  roses  over  my  grave,  and  in  how  long  a 
time  it  would  be. 

I  can  remember  well  the  time  when  the  leaves  of  the  rose 
bush  fell.  I  saw  them  drop  one  by  one  upon  the  ground,  and 
I  turned  away  and  wept. 

"  All  things  fade,"  thought  I,  "  and  why  should  I  be  ex- 


BOSTON     COMMON.  435 

empt  from  the  general  rule  ?  The  brightest  flowers  wither, 
the  fairest  hopes  decay  ;  and  nothing  here  is  sure  —  nothing 
worth  striving  for." 

Thus  passed  five  months  of  my  wretched  existence  —  passed 
in  gloomy  reveries  and  harassing  thoughts.  I  had,  in  this 
time,  faded  to  a  mere  skeleton.  My  face  bore  the  index  of 
my  mind,  —  it  was  sad,  solemn,  and  inspired  the  beholder 
with  feelings  of  pity.  I  had  learned  in  September  that  Ro 
land  and  Grace  lived  together  in  my  once  dear,  happy  home ; 
that  he  had  renewed  his  dissipated  habits,  and  that  he  was 
selling  piece  after  piece  of  my  furniture.  The  news  inspired 
me  with  scarcely  any  feeling.  I  thought,  as  I  read  the  letter 
containing  it,  "  Nothing  he  can  do  now  will  have  any  power 
to  harm  me ;  I  care  not  for  it." 

One  gloomy  day  in  December,  as  I  was  listlessly  looking 
over  my  trunks,  it  suddenly  came  into  my  mind,  the  first 
time  for  many  weeks,  to  examine  my  purse,  and  ascertain 
whether  I  had  money  enough  to  meet  the  demands  of  the 
winter.  I  opened  it,  and  poured  the  contents  into  my  lap. 
Six  dollars  alone  remained  !  Six  dollars !  what  was  I  now 
to  do? 

As  I  asked  myself  this  question,  a  sudden  change  seemed 
to  pass  over  me.  My  apathy  fled  from  me,  and  my  eyes 
opened  to  a  new  sensation  —  the  sensation  of  poverty  and 
want ! 

Six  dollars !  And  where  was  I  to  get  the  next  six  dollars 
from  ?  Where,  indeed  !  I  had  no  rents  now  coming  to  me, 
and  no  place  where  I  might  rest  my  weary  head  during  the 
winter.  For  myself  I  cared  not,  but  for  my  child  —  my 
darling  Willie.  For  his  sake  I  must  rise,  and  shake  off  the 
sloth  which  had-  encumbered  me  for  so  many  months. 


436  BOSTON     COMMON. 

I  had  been  living  in  a  dream  —  in  a  vague,  uncertain  state, 
in  which  I  had  blindly  nourished,  fostered,  and  yielded  myself 
to  an  overwhelming  grief —  the  grief  of  a  betrayed  trust  and 
disappointed  affection  ;  and  what  was  I  now  to  do  ? 

I  knew  nobody,  and  there  were  none  to  whom  I  could  ap 
ply,  save  a  few  friends  who  knew  me  when  I  was  rich,  but 
who  would  probably  not  be  willing  to  recognize  me  now ;  and 
as  for  my  relations,  whom  I  had  so  displeased  by  my  unfor 
tunate  marriage,  I  would  sooner  starve  than  let  them  know 
of  my  poverty  and  wretchedness. 

In  my  moodiness  and  unsociableness,  I  had  failed  to  secure 
the  friendship,  or  acquaintance  even,  of  any  person  in  the 
house.  I  was  entirely  ignorant  of  any  means  of  obtaining  a 
living  in  the  city ;  and  as  for  going  home  and  becoming 
dependent  upon  my  father  and  mother  for  a  support,  it  was 
entirely  out  of  the  question. 

Well,  then,  what  was  I  to  do  ?  I  must  try  something,  and 
that  immediately.  My  six  dollars  would  not  last  long,  and  I 
should  soon  be  without  even  the  means  of  paying  for  my  own 
and  child's  board. 

I  lay  awake  nearly  all  night,  pondering  over  this  new  per 
plexity  ;  but,  nevertheless,  my  heart  felt  already  lighter. 
The  load  of  stupidity  which  grief  had  imposed  was  gone,  and 
I  began  to  feel  as  though  my  energy  and  activity  had  not 
quite  deserted  me.  "  I  will  go,"  thought  I,  "  in  the  morn 
ing,  and  see  if  I  cannot  procure  some  music-scholars.  There 
are  a  great  many  children  in  this  city :  and  I  feel  almost  con 
fident  that  I  shall  be  successful,  if  I  try." 

I  arose,  feeling  far  better  in  mind  and  body  than  I  had 
done  for  many  months.  I  ate  my  breakfast  with  a  relish, 


BOSTON     COMMON.  437 

and  looked  upon  "Willie  with  more  interest  and  affection  than 
usual.  I  thought  he  had  grown  very  large,  and  looked  a 
deal  like  his  father.  I  felt  half  sorry  for  this,  but  kissed 
him  over  and  over,  again,  to  his  evident  delight ;  for  he  had 
not  had  so  merry  a  time  with  mamma  for  ever  so  long 
before. 

I  then  searched  my  wardrobe  for  a  dress  to  wear  upon  my 
excursion,  and  was  very  much  surprised  to  find  them  all 
looking  so  old  and  shabby.  My  black  silk  dress  looked 
ragged  and  rusty,  as  did  all  my  other  silks.  My  thibet  was 
nearly  gone ;  and  all  my  clothes  wore  such  an  old-fashioned, 
wo-begone  air,  that  I  wept  when  I  beheld  them. 

"  Dear  cousin  Ernest !  "  thought  I,  "  what  if  he  could  see 
these  wretched  things  now,  torn  and  disfigured  so  badly  ? 
Where  could  I  have  been  to  get  so  very  ridiculous  ?  0,1 
remember.  I  have  been  out  in  all  sorts  of  weather,  and 
worn  these  clothes,  I  suppose.  But  what  could  I  have  been 
thinking  of,  to  have  spoiled  all  my  dresses  in  this  manner  ? 
Heaven  alone  can  tell  where  I  am  .to  obtain  the  next  from. 
I  will  put  on  this  black  dress,  I  think.  It  will  correspond 
best  with  my  sad  face,  and  its  wo-begone  expression." 

I  donned  the  dress,  and  sallied  forth.  The  day  was  very 
pleasant;  and  I  was  glad  it  was  so,  for  I  determined  to  spoil 
no  more  dresses  in  the  rain.  I  wandered  around  all  day, 
and  returned  at  night  dispirited  and  sad  enough.  All  had 
looked  with  coldness  upon  me,  and  some  with  suspicion.  A 
number  had  told  me  that  they  did  not  wish  their  daughters  to 
take  lessons  of  a  woman.  One  lady  said  that  her  daughters 
did  not  like  strangers ;  and  another  told  me  that  I  must  bring 
37* 


438  BOSTON     COMMON. 

reference  from  a  first  rate  gentleman-teacher,  or  she  could 
not  engage  me. 

In  vain  I  pleaded  my  entire  inability  to  obtain  what  was 
impossible.  I  could  find  no  pupils  this  day,  and  I  sat  down 
and  wondered  what  I  should  do  next. 

One,  two,  three  days  passed,  and  I  had,  as  yet,  come  to 
no  satisfactory  conclusion.  At  length  I  thought  that  I  would 
Bit  down  and  njend  up  all  my  clothes.  "  Perhaps,"  thought 
I,  "  my  appearance  was  not  smart  enough  to  suit  my  pa 
trons." 

Accordingly  I  fell  to  work.  Every  dress  was  ripped  up, 
turned,  pressed,  and  made  over.  The  ladies  in  the  house, 
delighted  with  my  returning  spirits,  cheerfully  assisted  me. 
They  told  me  the  last  new  fashions,  gave  me  sleeve-patterns, 
&c. ;  and,  in  a  fortnight,  I  had  been  so  industrious  that  I 
•was  able  to  look  upon  my  wardrobe  with  much  satisfaction 
and  pleasure.  I  now  had  ten  good  dresses,  all  in  perfect 
order,  besides  those  I  had  cut  up  and  made  over  for  Willie. 
My  cloak  and  visite,  that  the  rain  had  nearly  spoiled,  were 
turned  and  remodelled,  and  my  gloves  all  neatly  repaired. 
But  my  shawl,  —  I  could  do  nothing  with  it ;  it  was  literally 
spoiled  with  the  rain.  One  of  the  ladies  told  me  that  she 
would  try  and  exchange  it  for  a  winter  bonnet.  I  agreed ; 
and  as  the  material  was  of  the  richest  kind,  she  obtained  for 
me  a  cheap  shawl,  a  nice  bonnet,  and  Willie  a  pretty  little 
cloak  and  hat. 

It  was  strange  what  a  vast  improvement  my  new  employ 
ment  had  made  upon  my  mind.  I  had  now  a  motive,  and 
that  motive  was  my  cousin  Ernest.  As  I  looked  at  my  faded 
dresses,  torn  gloves,  and  worn-out  boots,  I  thought  of  him  ; 


BOSTON     COMMON.  439 

and  all  the  long  lectures  he  used  to  give  me  concerning  my 
clothes  came  to  my  mind  with  such  force,  that  I  sat  down 
immediately,  and  did  exactly  as  he  would  have  advised  me  to 
do  were  he  with  me.  So  much  for  the  force  of  a  good  ex 
ample.  Years  had  passed  since  Ernest  had  said  to  me, 
"  Helen,  you  cannot  be  a  lady  unless  you  are  perfectly  neat, 
and  pay  proper  attention  to  your  dress,"  and  I  had  had 
trouble  enough  since  to  have  forever  extinguished  all  hope 
of  anything  better. 

Ernest  might  be  dead,  but  still  I  remembered  his  words ; 
and  here  I  was,  scarcely  knowing  it,  but  striving,  although 
poverty  stared  me  in  the  face,  to  do  his  bidding  exactly. 

"  Now,"  thought  I,  as  I  looked  at  my  clothes  all  in  perfect 
order,  my  embroidery  nice  and  clean,  my  cloak  and  visite  as 
good  and  fashionable  as  new,  and  my  pretty  little  winter  hat, 
together  with  Willie's  things,  so  nice,  "  now  Ernest  would  be 
satisfied  ;  now  he  would  say  that  I  had  achieved  a  conquest 
over  myself." 

And  truly  I  had ;  for  once  I  should  not  have  supposed  it 
possible  that  I  could  cut  out  and  make  a  dress,  still  less  alter 
over  a  cloak.  But  poverty  and  adversity  are  good  teachers, 
and  had  done  wonderful  things  for  me.  Although  I  loved 
them  not,  yet  I  was  rapidly  improving  under  their  bitter  but 
salutary  influences. 


CHAPTER    XLIV. 

With  equal  mind,  what  happens  let  us  bear, 
Nor  joy  nor  grieve  too  much  for  things  beyond  our  care. 
Like  pilgrims  to  the  appointed  place  we  tend,  — 
The  world  's  an  inn,  and  Death's  the  journey's  end." 


BCT  my  money  had  now  all  disappeared  save  one  dollar. 
Reader  !  I  was  the  owner  of  one  solitary  dollar  !  What  was 
I  now  to  do  ?  Where  look  for  assistance  ? 

Troubles  never  come  singly  ;  and  that  night,  when  all  were 
soundly  sleeping,  a  great  and  terrible  tyrant  entered  our 
dwelling.  He  came  and  poured  his  wrath  in  every  part  of 
that  devoted  house.  He  sent  his  troops  in  every  direction  ; 
and  it  was  strange  to  see  how  easily,  in  the  dark  night, 
when  all  were  sleeping  so  fearlessly,  he  could  go  through 
the  stoutest  walls,  how  quickly  level  the  firmest  partitions, 
how  soon  make  all  that  large  dwelling  one  entire  ruin. 

But  he  had  not  half  finished  his  work  of  destruction,  when, 
approaching  one  of  the  sleepers  rather  unguardedly,  he 
arouses,  awakes,  and  in  wild  terror  starts  from  his  pillow. 
The  tyrant's  troops  have  nearly  surrounded  him  ;  bat  he 
rushes  through  them  all  madly  to  the  window,  and  throws  it 
quickly  up.  And  now  his  voice  is  ringing  out  loudly  and 


BOSTON     COMMON.  441 

clearly  upon  the  night  air,  startling  the  drowsy  watchmen,  and 
soon  the  name  of  the  terrible  tyrant  is  heard  echoing  up  and 
down  the  long  street. 

All  the  sleepers  are  now  awakened,  and,  with  horror  de 
picted  upon  their  countenances,  are  wildly  struggling  for  their 
lives  and  property.  A  little  is  saved ;  but  most  are  glad  to 
escape  with  their  lives. 

And  now  the  whole  city  is  in  confusion.  A  hundred  voices 
are  crying  and  echoing  "  tire,  fire  ! "  The  great  bell  of 
Brattle-street  Church  is  booming  out  "  one,  two,  three,  one, 
two,  three  ;  "  and  every  sound  strikes  deep  into  the  heart  of 
the  listener.  Many  a  warm,  comfortable  sleeper  in  that  large 
city  turns  and  shivers  with  fear,  —  then  thanks  God  that  he 
is  safe,  —  then  sinks  again  to  sleep. 

The  streets  are  now  filled  with  the  firemen.  They  have 
come  with  their  heavy  artillery,  and  are  levelling  it  unmer 
cifully  upon  the  enemy  ;  but  it  comes  too  late.  The  tyrant 
has  accomplished  his  object,  —  his  work  is  finished,  and  the 
destruction  complete. 

The  watchmen  have  ceased  their  cries,  the  firemen  have 
departed  with  their  engines,  the  crowd  dispersed  to  their 
homes  and  beds  once  more,  and  none  are  left  but  the  victims. 
A  few  of  these  have  friends,  and  have  gone  to  them.  The 
remainder  stand  around  in  sad  groups,  not  knowing  what  to 
do,  or  whither  to  go.  Among  these  are  myself  and  little 
Willie,  who  is  clinging  to  my  neck  in  sad  affright. 

I  had  been  awakened  by  the  shouting  of  men,  and  the 
ringing  of  bells.  Smelling  the  fire,  and  seeing  the  light,  I  in 
a  moment  comprehended  all ;  and,  starting  from  the  bed,  I 
slipped  on  my  clothes  in  the  greatest  haste,  but  with  as  much 
calmness  as  possible. 


442  BOSTON    COMMON. 

I  first  dressed  Willie,  and,  putting  on  his  cloak  and  hat, 
seated  him  upon  the  bed  and  told  him  to  keep  quite  still,  for 
there  was  a  big  fire  outside.  I  then  took  all  my  clothes  and 
Willie's,  threw  them  pell-mell  into  my  trunks,  and  locked  them. 
Grasping  my  frightened  child  with  one  hand,  and  dragging  my 
trunks  successively  to  the  door  with  the  other,  I  persuaded  a 
couple  of  bystanders  to  carry  them  into  the  street  for  me, 
while  I  followed  with  my  child  to  a  place  of  safety. 

The  whole  transaction  occupied  but  five  minutes ;  but  I 
often  wonder  at  my  coolness  in  this  affair.  I  was  calm  and 
collected,  thinking  that  a  few  moments  might  not  effect  much  ; 
that  I  was  too  poor  now  to  lose  my  clothes,  and  that  I  must 
make  an  exertion  to  save  them.  No  surprise  or  sudden  dis 
aster  shocked  me  now.  I  had  had  too  many  of  them,  and 
they  had  lost  their  power  to  harm. 

I  stood  among  that  group  of  half-naked,  terrified  beings, 
well  dressed,  and  the  calmest  of  all.  I  showed  them  my 
trunks,  and  told  them  that,  if  they  went  back  and  used  ex 
pedition,  theirs  too  might  be  rescued.  Some  heeded  my 
advice,  others  looked  at  me  in  stupid  wonder,  and  others 
wrung  their  hands  and  cried  "  0  dear  ! "  several  times.  But 
all  the  "  0  dears !  "  in  the  world  are  of  no  avail,  unless  we 
have  constant  presence  of  mind,  and  use  exertion. 

I  seated  myself  upon  one  of  my  trunks,  with  my  babe  in 
my  arms,  and  waited  ibr  the  dawn  of  morning.  It  came  at 
last,  f^d  smiled,  and  greeted  us  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 
Such  a  set  of  wo-begone  faces  were  seldom  to  be  seen; 
but,  with  the  moru ing's  light,  they  dispersed.  Some  went 
one  way,  some  another ;  and,  at  last,  I  was  left  alone  in  front 
of  that  ruin,  with  my  child  and  trunks. 


BOSTON     COMMON.  443 

A  shopkeeper  now  came  to  his  place  of  business?,  took  down 
the  shutters,  and  unfastened  the  door.  While  doing  so,  how 
ever,  he  glanced  first  at  the  ruin,  and  then  at  Willie*  and  my 
self.  There  was  pity  in  his  eye  as  he  looked  towards  us,  and 
I  felt  that  he  had  a  heart.  He  approached  me. 

"  Well,  Miss,"  said  he,  "  you  had  a  great  fire  last  night." 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Were  you  one  of  the  boarders  1 " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Is  that  your  babe  1 " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  You  look  rather  young  to  have  a  child  so  large  as  that, 
do  you  not  1 " 

"  No,  sir." 

"  Did  you  escape  without  injury  1 " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Can  I  assist  you  in  any  way  1 " 

"Yes,  if  you  will." 

"  How,  if  you  please  1 " 

"  Let  me  leave  my  trunks  in  your  shop  until  I  can  obtain  a 
place  to  put  them." 

"  Willingly,  Miss  ;  leave  them  there  as  long  as  you  please, 
and  welcome.  Here,  John,  Tom,  take  the  lady's  trunks  and 
carry  them  into  the  shop.  Was  your  husband  saved  also,  Miss  1 " 

I  made  no  answer.  He  repeated  his  question.  I  looked  at 
him  ;  he  apologized,  and,  bowing,  went  into  the  shop. 

I  now  remembered  my  dresses  that  I  had  lately  ironed  out 
so  smoothly,  and,  judging  what  Ernest  would  do  were  he  in  my 
place,  I  went  into  the  shop,  folded  all  my  clothes  and  Willie's 
very  nicely,  and  laid  them  with  exact  precision  into  my  trunks. 


444  BOSTON     COMMON. 

"  There,"  thought  I,  "  cousin  Ernest  would  be  pleased  to  see 
everything  arranged  so  nicely ;  and  there  is,  indeed,  a  deal  of 
satisfaction  in  having  everything  in  its  place." 

"  You  have  some  very  nice  dresses  there,  Miss,"  said  the 
polite  shopkeeper,  who,  with  all  his  kindness,  had  a  Yankee's 
curiosity.  "  Perhap.s,  Miss,  you  might  be  induced  to  come  in, 
some  day,  and  examine  my  goods.  I  have  some  of  the  finest 
quality,  Miss." 

"  I  have  no  objections  to  your  goods,  sir ;  but  I  have  to  the 
title  you  so  constantly  confer  upon  me.  I  am  not  a  Miss, 
sir,  but  a  Mrs" 

"  0,  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mrs.  I  might  have  known  a3 
much." 

"  Good-morning,  sir." 

"  Good-morning,  Mrs." 


CHAPTER    XLV. 

"  Blow,  blow,  thou  wintry  wind  ! 
Thou  art  not  so  unkind 

As  man's  ingratitude  ! 
Thy  tooth  is  not  so  keen, 
Because  thou  art  not  seen, 
Although  thy  breath  be  rude." 

SHAKSPEARE. 

"  I  fancy  I  'm  now  turned  wild, 
A  commoner  of  Nature  ;  of  all  forsaken." 

DRYDEN. 

I  LEFT  the  shop  with  Willie,  and  wended  my  way  into 
Washington-street.  My  child  was  now  crying  for  his  break 
fast,  and,  going  into  an  eating-house,  I  procured  both  him  and 
myself  some  bread  and  milk.  For  this  I  paid  a  quarter  of 
the  precious  dollar,  and,  with  three  quarters  in  my  pocket,  once 
more  betook  myself  to  the  street. 

I  do  not  know  exactly  what  were  my  feelings  this  day  as  I 
wandered  up  and  down  the  streets ;  but  they  would  doubt 
less  have  been  very  sad  ones  to  most  persons  situated  like 
myself.  I  was  not  very  sad,  however.  I  had  both  borne 
and  suffered  so  much  that  I  now  resolved  to  put  my  trust  en 
tirely  in  God,  feeling  sure  that  all  would,  in  some  inexplicable 
manner,  be  unravelled  and  made  right  in  his  own  good  time. 
38 


446  BOSTON    COMMON. 

I  did  not  sit  down  idly,  however,  but  resolutely  sought  for 
a  place  in  which  to  remain  for  the  night.  I  was  not  success 
ful.  Some  were,  full;  others  did  not  like  to  take  a  lady  with 
a  child.  One  was  very  unwilling  to  take  a  woman  without  a 
husband,  and  who  had  a  babe  also.  "  It  looked  suspicious," 
she  said.  I  could  have  annihilated  her,  with  a  good  will,  for 
her  insolence  ;  but  only  looked  at  her  with  quiet  scorn,  and 
•walked  away. 

I  have  good  occasion  to  remember  some  of  the  boarding- 
mistresses  of  Boston.  They  have  certain  peculiarities  about 
them,  which  they  carefully  conceal  from  the  world,  and  reveal 
only  to  the  single  persons  of  their  own  sex. 

A  young  girl,  with  her  heart  almost  in  her  mouth,  trem 
bling,  and  blushing  to  her  fingers'  ends,  goes  up  to  the  door 
of  a  boarding-house,  and  pulls  the  bell.  A  servant  answers 
her  ring,  and  the  girl  inquires  for  the  mistress  of  the  house. 
She  comes  simpering  forward,  but  her  countenance  undergoes 
a  change  instantly,  as  her  caller  timidly  inquires  if  she  has 
room  for  another  boarder.  She  glances  at  her  clothes,  —  looks 
her  through  and  through,  and,  after  the  poor  girl  has  under 
gone  this  scrutiny,  answers  her  as  she  thinks  proper. 

Sometimes  she  tells  her  that  she  is  quite  full.  That  I  know 
to  be  false  ;  for  you  can  stow  as  many  girls  as  you  can  count 
in  a  day,  in  an  attic,  while  they,  poor  things,  are  only  too  glad 
of  such  an  opportunity. 

Sometimes  she  will  tell  her  that  she  must  bring  a  "  refer 
ence  ;  "  or  she  will  say,  in  a  squeaking  voice,  that  she  does  not 
like  single  ladies,  that  girls  in  a  house  are  very  disagreeable; 
or,  that  if  she  were  a  man,  she  would  take  her,  &c.  &c. 

The  poor  girl,  disappointed,  turns  away  with  a  sick  heart, 


BOSTON    COMMON.  447 

to  seek  another  house,  and,  most  probably,  to  meet  with  the 
same  repulse. 

Now,  what  was  the  reason  the  landlady  did  not  take  her, 
and  why  did  her  countenance  change  so  suddenly  at  the  girl's 
gentle  request  ?  Because  she  will  get  but  two  or  two  and  a 
half  dollars  per  week,  for  packing  her  in  a  musty  old  room, 
with  I  don't  know  how  many  others.  If  a  gentleman  had  ap 
plied,  how  benevolent  would  have  been  the  lady's  face,  how 
smooth  and  glib  her  tongue  !  He  will  pay  a  little  more;  and 
why  should  he  not,  when  he  has  a  nice,  airy  room  to  sleep  in, 
and  is  always  greeted  with  smiles  from  the  landlady's  face  ? 

Should  a  lady  apply  for  herself  and  husband,  the  answer 
would  be,  "  0,  yes,  indeed  !  walk  in,  madam.  I  have  a  beau 
tiful  room.  You  can  have  all  sorts  of  privileges,  —  a  lun 
cheon,  plenty  of  hot  water,  a  girl  to  tend  the  baby  while  you 
are  eating,  &c. ;  "  and  she  dismisses  her  with  an  affectionate 
squeeze  of  the  hand,  and  an  injunction  to  come  early  on  the 
morrow. 

Now,  my  dear  Mrs.  married  lady,  you  depart  highly  de 
lighted  with  the  mistress  of  the  house,  —  she  is  so  polite,  so 
amiable,  &c.  But,  had  there  not  been  a  man  in  the  case,  you 
would  very  quickly  have  been  told  quite  a  different  story. 

All  boarding-mistresses,  however,  are  not  alike ;  or  else 
Heaven  help  the  poor  girls  !  No,  I  have  met  a  few  bright 
spirits,  in  my  wanderings,  who  possess  such  kind,  sympathizing 
hearts,  and  love  their  own  sex  so  unaffectedly,  that  they  will 
be  found,  in  the  great  day  that  is  to  judge  all,  worthy  to  walk 
in  white. 

I  only  wish  I  might  keep  a  large  boarding-house  for  a 
while.  I  would  soon  fill  it  with  girls.  They  should  have  the 


448  BOSTON     COMMON. 

best  rooms  in  the  house,  the  best  food,  the  best  attentions,  and 
the  best  of  everything.  I  would  teach  them  what  a  heaven  a 
kind  heart  could  make  even  of  a  boarding-house.  And  if  any 
were  inclined  to  stray  from  virtue's  paths,  I  would  talk  to 
them  so  kindly,  and  pray  with  them  so  earnestly,  that  they 
could  not  help  being  good,  —  they  must  surely  reform.  God 
bless  the  dear  girls,  say  III  love  them  all,  good  and  bad 
together. 

Americans  talk  of  their  politeness  to  females  !  Let  them 
give  them  higher  wages  for  their  hard-earned  labor,  and  not 
take  all  the  nice,  cool,  well-furnished  rooms,  and,  giving 
them  to  gentlemen,  stow  the  girls  up  six  or  seven  nights  of 
stairs,  where  the  sun  beats  upon  their  heads  with  no  mitiga 
tion  through  the  day,  and  the  air,  from  so  many  breaths,  is 
almost  pestilential  by  night,  and  we  will  believe  them. 

But  I  have  strayed  from  my  story.  Where  was  I  ?  0, 
turning  away  from  the  boarding-houses.  I  found  that  my  ap 
plications  were  in  vain.  I  could  discover  no  spot  for  my 
weary  feet  to  rest  upon ;  and,  full  of  grief,  I  ventured  into  a 
large  store,  and  sat  down  to  think.  . 

I  had  not  been  here  many  minutes,  when  I  thought  I  heard 
a  familiar  voice.  I  rushed  to  the  door,  and,  sure  enough, 
there  was  Letise !  Mrs.  John  Smith,  in  all  the  pride  and 
glory  of  a  rich  merchant's  wife,  sailing  by.  She  was  dressed 
in  the  richest  of  clothing,  and,  as  her  heavy  garments  swept 
the  side-walk,  all  seemed  to  feel  her  consequence,  and  stepped 
aside  to  let  her  pass.  Two  other  ladies,  dressed  very  much 
like  herself,  were  her  companions ;  and  she  was  looking  at 
them  with  such  a  contented,  happy  expression,  that,  although 
she  had  grown  so  robust,  I  recognized  her  at  the  first  glance. 


BOSTON     COMMON.  449 

A  wild  ray  of  joy  darted  into  my  mind  at  this  unexpected 
rencounter,  for  the  thought  that  I  was  now  safe  brought  with  it 
its  own  happiness.  I  hastened  after  her,  and  called,  "  Letise, 
Letise !  "  She  did  not  hear  me,  as  my  voice  was  lost  in  the 
crowd.  I  returned  to  the  shop  for  little  Willie.  He  was 
very  sleepy,  and,  taking  him  in  my  arms,  I  carried  him  down 
to  the  place  where  my  trunks  were. 

The  shopkeeper  bowed,  when  I  entered,  and  desired  to  bo 
honored  with  my  commands. 

"  I  have  not  been  able  to  procure  a  boarding-place  yet,  sir," 
said  I ;  "  and,  as  my  child  is  quite  sleepy,  may  I  take  the 
liberty  of  laying  him  upon  my  trunks,  to  sleep  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  Miss,  —  that  is,  Mrs.,"  he  replied.  "  Do  what 
you  please  in  this  shop,  — everything  is  at  your  service.  But 
let  me  make  the  little  fellow  a  bed  of  these  blankets." 

He  very  kindly  made  him  a  nice  bed,  and  Willie  was  soon . 
asleep.     Turning  to  the  shopkeeper,  I  asked  permission  to 
write  a  note.     He  instantly  handed  me  the  materials,  and, 
with  a  heart  beating  with  hope  and  joy,  I  wrote  the  following : 

"  MY  DEAR  LETISE  : 

"  I  suppose  the  handwriting,  and  name  at  the  bottom  of 
this  little  note,  will  very  much  surprise  you,  will  it  not  ? 
Letise,  your  poor  old  friend,  Helen,  is  in  trouble,  —  has  been 
afflicted  deeply  since  you  left  her.  I  have  been  in  the  city 
several  months,  and  am  now  without  a  home,  or  a  dollar ! 
Strange,  that  both  of  us  should  have  been  situated  so  exactly 
alike,  is  it  not  ? 

"  Well,  dear  Letise,  I  ask  the  shelter  of  your  roof,  for  a 
short  time,  for  myself  and  Willie,  until  I  can  obtain  relief 
38* 


450  BOSTON     COMMON. 

from  home.     Please  answer  this  immediately,  and  direct  to 
the  post-office,  where  I  shall  be  in  waiting. 

"  Your  poor,  afflicted 

"  HELEN." 

I  sealed  my  note,  and,  kissing  the  sleeping  Willie,  myself 
prepared  to  take  it  to  Mrs.  Smith's  residence.  I  was  too  poor 
to  hire  a  boy  for  the  purpose ;  and,  as  I  remembered  the  street 
and  number,  I  immediately  started  for  the  place. 

I  soon  arrived,  and,  ringing  the  bell,  a  servant  came  to  the 
door.  "  Is  your  mistress  at  home  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  She  is,  madam,"  replied  the  girl. 

"  Will  you  please  hand  her  this  note,  and  immediately  ?  " 

"  I  will,"  she  answered. 

The  girl  took  the  note,  and,  as  I  turned  away,  closed  the 
door. 

I  stood  a  moment  before  the  house.  It  was  a  lofty  struc 
ture  of  brick,  with  a  broad  silver-plate  upon  the  door,  upon 
which  "  John  Smith  "  was  engraved,  in  large,  pompous  char 
acters. 

Fearing  I  might  be  observed,  I  again  bent  my  steps  down 
Washington-street.  On  my  way,  I  spent  another  quarter  of 
the  dollar  for  our  dinner,  and  encountered  a  poor,  ragged 
child,  who  was  crying  with  hunger.  I  could  not  resist  its 
touching  appeal,  and  so  gave  it  another  quarter,  to  buy  food 
with.  I  could  not  help  it.  I  should  have  done  the  same 
thing  had  it  taken  my  last  cent,  —  and  it  did,  very  nearly. 

I  found  Willie  awake,  and  waiting  for  his  dinner.  After 
we  had  eaten,  I  took  my  way  to  the  post-office,  expecting 
that  Letitia  had  already  arrived.  There  was,  however,  no 


BOSTON     COMMON.  451 

Letitia,  no  note;  and  I  waited  hour  after  hour,  but  no  answer 
came. 

Full  of  surprise,  I  asked  for  writing  materials  at  the  ladies' 
window,  and  once  more  wrote  a  few  words  to  my  friend. 

"  DEAR  LETISE  : 

"  Your  poor  Helen  is  waiting  anxiously,  at  the  post-office, 
to  hear  from  you.  Send  or  come  soon.  Both  she  and  Willie 
are  without  money  or  shelter." 

The  note  was  taken  to  Letise's  door,  and  I  asked  the  servant 
who  answered  my  ring  if  she  gave  the  former  one  to  her 
mistress. 

She  replied  that  she  did.  "And  what  did  she  say?"  I 
asked. 

"  She  read  it  through,  ma'am,"  the  girl  replied ;  "  and,  say 
ing  that  it  required  no  answer,  threw  it  into  the  fire." 

Had  a  bolt  of  thunder  fallen  at  my  feet,  I  could  not  have 
felt  more  shocked.  I  turned,  without  handing  the  servant  my 
other  note,  and  once  more  resumed  my  way  to  the  post-office, 
thinking  that  the  servant  might  have  mistaken  my  note  for 
some  other  one,  which'  her  mistress  had  thrown  into  the  fire, 
and  having  a  faint  hope,  still,  that  my  false  friend  might  yet, 
in  pity  to  my  sufferings,  come  to  my  relief. 

Here  I  waited  hour  after  hour,  and  eagerly  scanned  every 
face  that  entered  the  door ;  but  still  no  signs  of  Letise.  The 
servant  was  right,  —  I  never  received  an  answer  to  that  little, 
heart-rending  appeal ;  and,  sick  at  heart,  I  wended  my  way 
to  the  Common. 

Willie  being  hungry,  I  bought  him  some  cakes  and  fruit, 


*  - 

452  BOSTON     COMMON. 

for  which  I  spent  a  ninepence.  I  ate  none  myself,  for  I 
thought  that  I  must  save  as  much  as  possible  for  my  poor 
child ;  and,  indeed,  I  did  not,  in  my  then  state  of  mind,  think 
that  I  should  ever  feel  like  eating  again. 

We  reached  the  Common,  and  I  seated  myself  under  one 
of  the  trees.  They  were  now  quite  leafless  and  bare,  as  it  was 
the  last  of  December,  although  the  weather  was  still  pleasant. 
No  snow  had  yet  fallen,  and  it  was  quite  mild. 

My  heart  had  received  a  cruel  shock,  from  which  it  would 
not  recover  in  a  long  time  ;  and  while  Willie  played  at  my 
feet  I  had  leisure  to  think  of  it. 

"  Was  it  possible,"  thought  I,  "  that  this  girl,  this  Letitia 
Milford,  who  had  professed  such  unbounded  friendship  for  me 
in  tunes  past ;  who  had  received  a  home  from  me  for  more  than 
a  year  and  a  half;  who  had  eaten  at  my  table,  with  such  a 
free,  generous  welcome ;  who  had  reposed  upon  my  bed  so  many, 
many  nights ;  who  owed  me  almost  her  life,  and  her  child's 
also,  —  is  it  possible  that  she  had  known  that  Willie  and  my 
self  had  been  exposed  to  all  the  dangers  of  a  large  city,  with 
out  a  cent  of  money  to  buy  food,  or  a  shelter  for  the  night, 
and  not  have  come  instantly  to  our  relief?  Could  she  bear 
to  keep  a  poor,  suffering  mother  and  her  babe  in  the  cold,  and 
she  still  keep  aloof?  " 

How  very  different  had  been  my  course  of  conduct,  on  a 
similar  occasion !  I  had  instantly  written,  "  Come,  dearest 
Letise,  come.  My  home,  house,  heart,  and  husband,  are  all 
ready  and  waiting  to  receive  you ;  "  and,  in  the  place  of  mak 
ing  her  wait,  I  had  taken  my  carriage,  and  gone  immediately 
for  her. 

I  imagined  many  causes  for  this  strange,  and,  I  could  not 


BOSTON     COMMON.  453 

refrain  from  calling  it,  wicked  and  ungrateful  conduct.  Perhaps 
her  husband  might  not  have  been  willing ;  —  but  could  she  not 
have  told  him  of  that  dark,  sad  period  in  her  life,  when  all 
forsook  her,  all  but  Helen  Hastings?  And  would  it  have 
been  in  the  nature  of  man  to  have  resisted  such  a  recital  as 
that?  And,  in  any  case,  if  he  would  not  consent,  could  she 
not  have  sent  me  a  note,  instructing  me  as  to  where  I  could 
have  found  a  shelter  for  one  night,  at  least? 

But  what  really  was  the  cause  why  Letitia  did  not  answer 
my  note,  by  even  a  single  word  ?  Ah  !  the  truth  is  soon  and 
easily  told.  Letitia  had  become  the  rich  and  fashionable  Mrs. 
John  Smith,  whose  parties  were  the  wonder  of  the  whole  city ; 
whose  dinners  were  the  best,  whose  plate  the  costliest,  and 
whose  equipage  was  the  most  superb.  She  was,  of  course, 
one  of  the  "  upper  ten,"  one  of  the  elite,  whose  company  was 
so  select,  so  re'cherche,  that  it  would  have  been  entirely  out 
of  character  for  her  to  have  deviated  an  inch  from  the  beaten 
path. 

Could  she,  whose  reputation  for  fashion  and  splendor  stood 
so  high,  take  into  her  house  a  poor,  miserable  woman  and 
child,  who  were  ill-dressed,  and  who  would  make  such  a  sad, 
old-fashioned  appearance  among  her  wealthy  friends?  Could 
she,  the  rich  merchant's  wife,  introduce  the  sad-faced  stranger 
to  her  proud  and  fashionable  acquaintances,  as  one  of  the 
dearest  friends  she  ever  had  ?  Could  she  take  the  sad,  broken 
heart,  that  so  affectingly  sought  her  protection,  and  admit  it 
into  all  the  comforts  and  elegances  of  her  magnificent  home 
and  circle  ?  Preposterous  ideas,  and  not  to  be  thought  of  for 
a  moment ! 

What  business  had  Helen  Hastings  to  become  poor,  and 


454  BOSTON     COMMON. 

come  begging  around  Jier?  She  had  no  time  to  listen  to  any 
such  appeals,  and  no  money  to  throw  away  in  such  an  unprof 
itable  manner. 

True,  this  same  Helen  had  given  her  a  home  once,  when 
she  had  none ;  but  it  was  a  miserable  place,  compared  with 
the  one  she  now  sought  in  return.  She  had  introduced  her  as 
her  dear  friend  to  all  her  circle ;  but,  then,  what  was  Helen's 
circle,  in  a  little  country  village,  compared  with  Mrs.  John 
Smith's  five  hundred  friends,  many  of  whom  were  millionaires, 
or  members  of  some  lofty  station?  Helen  had  loved  and  cher 
ished  her  fatherless  child ;  but,  then,  she  had  lost  her  own  babe 
about  that  time,  so  that  it  was  rather  a  pleasure  than  otherwise. 
The  two  cases  were  altogether  different  in  comparison,  and 
not  to  be  weighed  together  a  moment. 

And  so  the  poor  mother  and  her  babe  were  left  without 
money  or  shelter,  exposed  to  danger,  cold,  and  hunger,  with 
nothing  but  the  heavens  above  for  a  covering,  and  mother 
earth  for  a  bed. 

As  all  these  sad  thoughts  revolved  themselves  through  my 
mind,  I  felt  so  grieved  that  there  was  so  much  ingratitude  and 
want  of  feeling  in  the  world,  that  I  burst  into  a  fit  of  weeping. 
They  were  the  bitterest  tears  I  had  ever  shed,  and  relieved 
my  aching  heart.  But  I  soon  recovered,  and,  although  my 
nerves  had  received  a  cruel  shock,  resolved  to  look  upon  this 
new  phase  of  my  adversity  with  calmness  and  resignation. 

"  I  will  weep  no  more,"  said  I,  indignantly,  "  for  the  per 
fidious,  the  ungrateful  Letitia.  Her  professions  of  friendship 
were  false,  her  heart  hollow.  She  is  not  worthy  of  my  honest 
tears." 

But  what  was  I  now  to  do  ?     If  I  could  possibly  obtain  a 


BOSTON      COMMON.  455 

• 

place  for  the  night,  I  had  not  the  means  of  paying  for  it ;  and, 
weak  and  exhausted  as  I  was,  I  could  not  drag  my  weary 
frame  to  look  for  one. 

I  sat  quite  still,  and,  with  a  sad  pensiveness,  wondered 
what  would  become  of  Willie  and  myself  before  morning.  I 
half  hoped  that  we  both  might  be  found  dead  together.  We 
should  be  far  better  at  rest  than  toiling  on  in  a  world  that 
offered  so  little  of  pleasure  and  so  much  sorrow  for  us. 

How  many,  many  times  had  I  sat  before  in  this  beautiful 
spot,  with  not  a  thought  or  care  to  trouble  me  !  Yonder  was 

my  former  splendid  home  in  Boston,  the  "  • House."  I 

could  see  its  windows  now,  lighted  with  gas,  and  sparkling 
like  so  many  stars. 

There  was  no  moon  that  night,  and  the  man  soon  came 
around  to  light  the  lamps.  I  was  half  tempted  to  ask  him 
if  he  could  tell  me  where  I  could  stay  for  the  night ;  but  my 
pride  forbade  it.  I  dreaded  his  opinion  of  me,  when  I 
should  inform  him  that  I  was  without  a  home  or  a  place  of 
shelter. 

Presently  the  lamps  were  all  lighted,  and  now  encircled 
the  Common  like  a  belt  of  burnished  diamonds,  or  a  wall  of 
stars.  People  came  and  .went;  some  looked  at  me,  while 
others  passed  me  by  without  a  glance.  "  All,"  thought  I, 
"  have  homes  —  have  a  place  to  rest  in  to-night,  —  even  the 
merest  beggar.  How  very  strange  that  I,  who  once  pos 
sessed  a  home,  and  was  so  willing  to  bestow  it  upon  the  needy, 
should  be  thus  situated  !  " 

By  and  by,  all  was  still.  The  voices  ceased,  the  footsteps 
died  away,  the  children  had  sought  their  homes  and  beds,  and 
no  noise  was  to  be  heard  save  in  the  city.  It  was  a  winter's 


456  BOSTON     COMMON. 

night,  and  all  were  anxious  for  the  shelter  of  their  own  roofs. 
Willie  now  grew  weary,  and  I  covered  him  with  my  shawl, 
and  hushed  him  to  sleep  upon  my  breast. 

Suddenly  the  thought  came  into  my  head  that  I  should  be 
safer  for  the  night  by  Harry's  grave  than  where  I  was  at 
present.  It  was  a  strange  thought,  and  a  wild  one ;  but  I 
knew  Harry  loved  me  on  earth,  that  he  was  "  waiting  for  me 
in  heaven,"  and  why  should  not  his  beautiful  spirit  watch 
over  me?  And  perhaps,  some  time  in  the  night,  it  would  be 
commissioned  to  bear  Willie  and  myself  far  away  with  it  into 
heaven.  Perhaps  he  was  even  now  waiting  at  the  grave  for 
me. 

I  arose,  with  my  sleeping  child  still  in  my  arms,  and  ap 
proached  the  spot.  I  could  scarcely  drag  my  weary  frame 
thus  far ;  but  at  last  I  reached  the  fence,  and  stood  a  moment 
looking  over. 

"All  seems  fair  and  pleasant  beyond,"  thought  I.  "Noth 
ing  will  harm  me,  and  I  shall  be  secure  in  this  sweet  place." 

I  climbed  over  the  fence  as  best  I  could,  and  approached 
the  grave.  I  soon  reached  it,  and  seated  myself  upon  the 
hallowed  turf.  A  singular  feeling  of  horror,  that  I  was  sit 
ting  in  a  grave-yard  by  night,  came  over  me  ;  but  I  strove  to 
banish  it,  and,  clasping  the  headstone,  prayed  Harry's  sweet 
spirit  to  preserve  us  in  safety. 


CHAPTER    XLVI. 

"  Pale  mourner,  arise  !  no  longer  despond  ;    - 
Back,  back  from  the  seas  thy  beloved  has  come." 

ANON. 

<(  Thee  have  I  loved,  thou  gentlest,  from  a  child, 
And  borne  thine  image  with  me  o'er  the  sea, 
Thy  soft  voice  in  my  soul.     Speak  !     0,  yet  live  for  me  ! " 

MBS.  HEMANS. 

NINE  o'clock  sounded  from  Park-street  Church.  It  was 
much  earlier  than  I  had  expected  ;  but  the  evenings  in  winter 
are  long,  especially  when  one  is  sad. 

As  I  sat  upon  that  lonely  grave,  long  banished  thoughts 
of  Harry  and  Ernest  came  into  my  mind,  which,  force  them 
back  as  I  would,  seemed  now  like  so  many  solemn  voices 
speaking  to  me,  whose  tones  I  could  not  silence. 

I  remembered  the  evening  that  Harry  had  died.  He  had 
said,  in  that  parting  hour,  that  Ernest  must  take  care  of  me ; 
that  he  must  keep  me  in  the  right  path,  and  never  let  me 
wander  from  it.  He  had  also  said  that  Ernest  and  myself 
were  to  be  united ;  that  we  must  strive  to  do  each  other,  and 
those  around  us,  all  the  good  that  lay  in  our  power;  and 
now,  as  I  remembered  Ernest,  his  features  came  one  by  one 
slowly  into  view,  —  the  broad,  intellectual  brow,  the  rich 
brown  hair,  the  expressive  eyes,  and  firm  mouth. 
39 


458  BOSTON      COMMON. 

I  thought  also  of  hia  noble  character,  so  free  from  weak 
ness,  so  great  and  lofty,  so  earnest  and  truthful.  I  thought 
of  his  piety,  so  deep  and  unaffected ;  of  his  devotion,  so  fer 
vent  ;  and  then  of  his  firmness  and  decision,  his  energy  and 
calm  presence  of  mind,  his  knowledge  and  attainments.  I 
believe  cousin  Ernest  knew  almost  everything ;  for  I  never 
asked  him  a  question  that  he  did  not  answer,  and  to  my  com 
plete  satisfaction. 

And,  lastly,  I  thought  of  his  love  for  me  —  strong  and 
deep  as  the  ocean.  I  was  his  joy,  his  life,  his  guiding  star  ; 
and  had  it  been  possible  that  I,  in  my  blind  folly,  had  given 
up  a  man  like  that  for  the  weak  creature  whom  I  had  mar 
ried  ?  Could  I  have  thrown  away  love,  mind,  talent,  almost 
perfection,  to  embrace  vice?  Instinctively  my  heart  bowed 
before  this  mighty  shrine  of  strength  and  virtue ;  my  soul 
longed  to  pay  reverence  to  so  much  goodness ;  longed  to  rest 
its  weary-laden  form  upon  this  rock  ;  longed  to  pour  forth 
all  its  sorrows  into  this  ear  of  boundless  love  ;  longed  to  lay 
down  its  burden  of  sighs  and  tears  at  his  feet,  and  die. 

A  change  had  suddenly  come  over  me.  I  was  not  the  being 
of  a  few  hours  since.  I  loved  again,  and  this  time  with  all 
the  force  of  a  heart  born  for  this  purpose.  My  whole  soul 
was  filled  with  that  image  ;  my  heart  bowed  insensibly  before 
it,  as  to  a  deity.  I  had  found  a  man  of  just  the  character  I 
loved  ;  and  I  bent,  alqaost  in  adoration,  before  his  spirit. 

But  suddenly  a  wild,  vague  sense  of  suffering  mingled  with 
my  new  and  delightful  sensations.  Ernest  was  not  here. 
He  had  been  gone  long  years  from  my  side  ;  he  had,  perhaps, 
perished  long  ago  upon  the  burning  sands  of  Arabia,  or  frozen 
upon  the  plains  of  Siberia.  I  should  never  see  him  again. 


BOSTON      COMMON.  459 

He  had  been  driven  forth,  a  gloomy  misanthrope ;  had  gone 
out  into  the  world  without  a  friend  to  cheer  his  lonely  lot ; 
had  buried  all  his  strong,  burning  love  for  me  deep  in  his 
heart;  had  rolled  the  heavy  stone  of  forgetfulness  over  its 
grave ;  had  arisen  with  a  mighty  effort,  and,  by  the  force  of 
his  powerful  will,  had  commanded  his  passions  to  be  still,  and 
rage  no  more. 

0,  yes  !  he  had  done  all  this,  —  had  been  wandering,  un 
happy,  wretched,  —  and  I  had  been  the  sole  cause  of  it.  My 
silly  love  for  another  had  brought  grief,  perhaps  death,  to  the 
noblest  of  his  race.  I  had  been  rightly  punished,  then,  and 
my  sufferings  had  been  no  more  than  I  deserved.  Ernest 
had  not  been  alone.  I  too  had  borne  him  company  in  suffer 
ing —  had  wept  as  many  tears,  perhaps,  as  himself;  and  I 
rejoiced  at  my  misfortunes,  for  they  had  forever  cured  me  of 
my  folly. 

And  now  I  only  wished  to  die,  that  I  might  meet  my  Ernest 
in  a  better  land,  and  tell  him  how  I  had  learned  at  last  to  love 
and  appreciate  hjs  goodness.  And  I  prayed  a  silent  prayer 
to  the  God  of  the  universe  that  he  would  cause  me,  some  day, 
all  in  his  own  good  time,  to  meet  with  Ernest ;  that,  if  he 
were  still  living,  we  might  yet  be  brought  together  again.  I 
concluded  by  thanking  him  for  his  many  blessings,  'and  im 
ploring  him  to  keep  both  Willie  and  myself  safely  through 
the  silent  watches  of  the  night. 

Tired  out,  and  wearied  with  the  trying  scenes  of  the  day, 
I  laid  my  head  at  length  upon  the  turf,  and  softly  closed  my 
eyes.  All  was  so  quiet  and  still  around  me,  that  I  fell,  for  a 
few  moments,  into  a  light  slumber.  I  was  suddenly  startled, 
however,  by  hearing  a  slight  noise  near  me. 


460  BOSTON     COMMON. 

I  aroused,  and,  laying  my  child  upon  the  ground,  looked 
eagerly  about  me.  The  noise  increased,  and,  glancing  tow 
ards  the  fence,  I  beheld,  with  affright,  the  figure  of  a  man 
attempting  to  get  over. 

He  soon  succeeded,  and,  when  over,  fixed  his  eyes  atten 
tively  upon  me.  After  a  few  moments'  scrutiny,  he  ventured 
to  come  forward,  as  if  to  take  a  nearer  survey. 

I  neither  screamed  nor  fainted,  but  sat  still  and  awaited 
the  intruder.  He  slowly  approached  me,  and  I  saw  that  he 
was  a  tall,  dark -browed  man,  with  a  heavy  cloak  wrapped 
about  him. 

Something  in  his  gait  and  air,  although  seen  by  gas-light, 
made  my  heart  stand  still.  But  he  is  coming,  and  every  sec 
ond  brings  him  nearer  and  nearer.  Shall  I  seize  my  child 
and  fly  ?  No  ;  I  could  only  elude  him  for  a  few  moments. 
HQ  is  large  and  strong  ;  I,  weary  and  weak.  And,  besides,  it 
is  too  late  to  move  an  inch  now ;  for  he  has  come  so  close  to 
me  that  I  can  almost  feel  his  breath  upon  my  cheek.  He  has 
kneeled  before  me  upon  the  ground  ;  he  has  gazed  with  a  light 
ning  glance  into  my  eyes ;  he  has  wound  a  strong,  muscular 
arm  around  my  waist ;  has  thrown  my  bonnet  to  the  ground, 
a'nd  bent  my  head  back  so  that  the  light  may  shine  full  into 
my  face ;  has  tossed  the  damp  hair  from  off  my  brow,  and 
exclaimed,  "  Nellie !  Grod  of  infinite  mercy !  It  is  my 
own  little  Nellie !  " 

A  sudden  rush  of  blood  comes  bounding  through  my  veins 
like  an  electric  shock  ;  a  dazzling  light  seems,  in  my  heated 
imagination,  to  dart  from  those  eyes  ;  a  wild  sense  of  love, 
peace,  joy,  and  rest,  fills  my  over-charged  heart ;  and,  with  a 
faint  cry,  and  the  name  "  Ernest "  upon  my  tongue,  I  close 
my  eyes  in  unconsciousness. 


BOSTON      COMMON.  461 

A  few  moments,  and  I  awoke.  The  fit  was  over,  the  dream 
dispelled,  and  once  more  I  was  alone,  —  alone  with  my  child. 

It  had  been  a  dream,  then  !  Ernest  had  not  been  there. 
My  heated  imagination  had  conjured  it  all  up,  but  to  add,  if 
possible,  to  my  grief.  But  no ;  it  must  have  been  so.  I  could 
not  have  been  thus  mistaken.  He  had  blessed  me  one  moment 
with  his  presence,  and  then  torn  it  forever  from  my  sight. 
O,  cruel  Ernest !  how  could  you  treat  me  thus?  How  lacer 
ate  still  deeper  my  bleeding  heart  ? 

I  had,  then,  seen  Ernest  again.  He  had  come,  either  in 
bodily  or  spiritual  shape,  I  knew  not  which ;  had  clasped  me 
in  his  arms,  had  gazed  into  my  tearful  eyes  with  his  own 
burning  orbs,  and  had  called  me  the  endearing  name  of 
"  Nellie,"  his  own  little  "  Nellie."  And  then,  when  joy 
had  paralyzed  my  senses,  he  had  left  me.  Was  there,  then, 
any  further  comfort  for  me  ?  No. 

I  arose  from  my  recumbent  position,  and  paced  that  lonely 
ground  with  hasty  and  uneven  steps.  I  bent  my  eyes  in 
every  direction,  as  if  to  find  the  form  of  him  I  loved.  I 
raised  them  to  heaven,  and  besought  it  to  kill  me,  or  give  me 
Ernest.  I  called  aloud  the  name,  and  listened  to  the  echo  of 
my  voice  as  it  died  away,  with  a  sickening  sensation  of  lone 
liness  I  had  never  felt  before.  All  my  philosophy  had  gone. 
Nothing  now  could  satisfy  me  but  Ernest. 

At  length  the  image  of  his  bright  and  beautiful  character 
dawned  upon  me.  I  remembered  his  firmness,  his  calmness, 
even  when  passion  and  grief  racked  his  breast.  Not  a  nerve 
was  convulsed,  not  a  muscle  disturbed.  Then  I  contrasted 
my  own  fiery,  impatient  spirit  with  his  ;  and,  in  a  moment,  so 
great  was  the  power  of  his  example  over  me,  I  was  calm, 
39* 


462  BOSTON     COMMON. 

was  subdued.  The  pulsation  of  my  heart  almost  ceased,  my 
muscles  were  stilled,  and  every  outward  trace  of  emotion  had 
subsided. 

I  smiled  at  the  wonderful  transformation.  "  0,  yes,"  said 
I,  in  a  low,  soft  tone,  undisturbed  by  a  single  trace  of  the 
passion  raging  in  my  breast,  "  we  are  very  much  alike, 
cousin  Ernest  and  I !  I  will  go  and  lie  down  again  upon 
Harry's  grave.  I  will  close  my  eyes,  just  as  I  did  before,  and 
perhaps  he  will  come  again.  O,  yes  !  I  know  he  will  come 
again." 

I  lay  down  by  the  side  of  Willie.  I  closed  my  eyes,  and 
dreamed  once  more  of  Ernest,  —  yes,  dreamed  of  Ernest ! 

He  came  again  to  the  fence,  leaped  its  iron  bars,  and  ap 
proached  me ;  not  this  time  with  a  slow  and  stealthy  step, 
but  as  if  in  haste  to  meet  me.  I  could  neither  move  nor  speak, 
but  a  deep  delight  filled  my  whole  heart,  and  I  lay  quite  still 
and  watched  hig  movements. 

He  approaches.  Yes;  it  is  really  Ernest,  although  the 
face  has  bronzed,  and  the  beautiful  brown  hair  is  sprinkled 
with  silver.  He  looks  at  us  both  a  moment,  and,  heavens  !  tears 
are  in  his  eyes  —  yes,  tears !  I  never  before  saw  tears  in 
those  haughty  eyes  —  never  !  What  can  have  occurred  to  make 
the  strong  man  weep  so  ?  But  I  care  not,  —  I  am  near  him, 
and  I  am  happy. 

He  stoops  and  raises  us  both,  mother  and  child,  in  those 
strong  arms,  and  bears  us  away,  —  away  from  Harry's  grave, 
away  from  that  lonely  spot,  away  from  that  singular  bed 
chamber,  and  away  from  those  strange,  unnatural  companions. 
He  leaps  lightly  with  us  over  the  fence,  and  bends  his  way  to 
a  carriage  that  stands  near  the  sidewalk.  . 


B-OSTON     COMMON.  463 

Another  moment,  and  we  are  safely  inside,  the  driver  has 
shut  the  door  and  mounted  his  box.  I  never  moved,  —  Wil 
lie  still  slept,  —  and  there  sat  Ernest,  calm  and  steadfast  as  a 
rock ;  and  Willie  and  myself  were  folded  close,  close  to  that 
big  heart,  that  is  beating,  beating  with  wonder,  pity,  love,  and 
joy. 

The  carriage  rolls  on ;  still,  all  is  silent  save  the  beating 
of  that  heart.  But  now  we  have  reached  a  brilliantly-lighted 
house.  The  carriage  stops  ;  the  driver  dismounts,  and  Ernest, 
still  clasping  his  burden  in  his  arms,  enters  that  house,  walks 
slowly  but  firmly  up  stairs  into  a  large  and  beautiful  drawing- 
room,  and  deposits  his  burden  upon  a  soft  and  downy  couch. 
He  rises,  and  gazes  tenderly  upon  us  for  a  moment,  then  turns 
to  leave. 

This  movement  brings  me  at  once  to  life  and  sense.  I  have 
seen  Ernest,  —  have  rested  upon  his  heart,  and  now  I  cannot 
lose  him  again.  I  start  from  the  couch.  "  Ernest,"  I  say,  in 
low  and  piteous  tones,  "  do  not  leave  me  !  I  shall  die  with 
out  you,  my  own  dear  Ernest !  " 

He  turns  and  bends  once  more  that  look  of  unutterable 
love  upon  me.  He  speaks ;  and  his  voice,  always  deep  and 
melodious,  now  vibrates  like  sweet,  low-toned  music  upon  my 
ear. 

"  Nellie,  dearest  Nellie  !  my  Nellie !  God  be  thanked  for 
this  blessed  moment,  that  restores  you  once  more  to  my 
arms  and  heart!  Nellie,  am  I,  then,  dear  to  you?  Do  you 
love  me,  at  last  ?  " 

"  0,  Ernest !  "  I  exclaimed  ;  "  better,  far  better  than  I 
ever  dreamed  of  loving  another.  You  are  my  rock,  my 
refuge,  my  all,  in  this  world  !  And  now  that  I  have  seen  you, 
let  me  die  !  " 


464  BOSTON     COMMON. 

"  Die !  —  No,  my  Nellie  ;  you  must  not  die,  but  live  and 
repay  me  for  all  I  have  suffered." 

"  0,  Ernest !  I  have  caused  those  sufferings.  I  have  sent 
many  a  pang  into  that  noble  heart,  and  now,  unworthy  as  I 
am,  let  me  die  !  " 

Ernest  stooped  and  raised  the  beautiful  babe  in  his  arms. 
He  untied  the  little  hat,  and  tossed  the  soft,  bright  curls  over 
the  fair  brow,  and  then  placed  the  babe  between  us. 

"  Look,  Helen,"  said  he,  "at  this  child,  —  this  beautiful 
little  being  whom  you  brought  into  life.  Would  you  die,  and 
leave  it  in  its  helpless  infancy,  its  cheerless  boyhood,  and  its 
dreary  manhood,  to  the  mercies  of  a  cold  and  heartless  world  ? 
No,  my  Helen,  live  ;  and  begin  from  this  night  to  live  anew  ; 
but,  whatever  you  do,  live  as  long  as  God  pleases." 

"  0,  Ernest !  "  I  answered,  "  I  will  try  and  do  as  you  re 
quire  ;  but  I  have  so  much  to  tell  you,  so  many  sufferings  to 
rehearse,  so  many  wanderings  to  deplore,  you  will  hate  and 
cast  me  from  you  when  I  have  told  you  all." 

"  Never,  Helen,  never !  You  need  not  tell  me  anything. 
I  know  all ;  all  your  husband's  errors,  your  loss  of  property, 
and  abandonment  of  home.  And  in  it,  and  through  it  all, 
dearest  Helen,  I  heard  of  your  devotion  to  that  husband,  of 
your  gentle  patience  in  the  midst  of  unparalleled  sufferings, 
and,  better  than  all,  my  Helen,  of  your  lowly  piety,  of  your 
trust  in  God,  and  love  for  His  name  and  cause.  Helen,  you 
have  done  right,  and  will  have  your  reward.  And  now  the 
happy,  thrice-blessed  hour  that  I  have  so  long  looked  for,  so 
long  prayed  for,  is  at  last  arrived.  You  love  me  ;  and,  hence 
forth,  through  time  and  eternity,  we  are  one,  my  own,  my 
\rife ! " 


BOSTON      COMMON.  465 

"  Alas,  Ernest !  "  I  cried,  "  you  surely  would  not  call  me 
wife,  would  you,  after  what  has  occurred  ?  After  causing  you 
a  world  of  trouble  and  anxiety ;  after  marrying  and  giving 
another  my  youth,  my  first  warm  affections ;  after  wasting 
my  fine  fortune  in  idleness  and  sin  ?  Do  you,  can  you  love 
me  still  ?  " 

"  Helen,"  said  Ernest,  solemnly,  "  my  love  for  you  is  deep, 
strong,  and  firm  as  a  rock.  It  will  outlive  anything,  every 
thing.  Your  form  would  linger  last  in  my  memory,  were  I 
dying;  your  name  be  latest  breathed  from  my  lips.  Helen, 
dearest  Helen,  we  are  now  one,  since  you  love  me,  and  nothing 
but  God's  will  shall  ever  part  us  more." 

"  But  my  husband,  Ernest  ?  You  forget  I  still  have  a 
husband  ?  " 

"  No,  my  child,  I  forget  nothing ;  you  have  no  husband, 
Helen.  He  whom  you  called  husband  has  lost  all  right  to 
that  title.  He  has  ruined  his  character,  broken  his  vows, 
trampled  upon  your  love,  and  sworn  faith  to  another.  He 
has  even  had  the  effrontery  to  live  with  that  other  for 
months,  in  direct  disobedience  to  God's  and'  man's  law.  Have 
you,  then,  a  husband  ?  " 

"  But,  Ernest,  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  I  still  have  a  hus 
band." 

"  Yes,  yes,  my  Helen ;  and  Heaven  forbid  that  I  should 
ever  forget  it.  But  your  friends  are  preparing  something  that 
will  forever  separate  you  from  him.  Do  you  consent  to  this  ? 
Then  we  will  yet  be  happy.  As  long  as  Iloland  is  degraded 
*id  sunken  in  vice,  you  have  no  right  to  taint  the  purity  of 
your  soul  by  mingling  it  with  his.  Should  he  repent  and 
seek  you,  then,  my  Helen,  we  should  have  to  separate ;  but 


466  BOSTON     COMMON. 

only  for  a  time.  If  not  united  on  earth,  we  shall  be  one  in 
heaven ;  for  mine  you  have  sworn  to  be,  through  time  and 
eternity. 

"  And  now,  Helen,  although  I  could  sit  and  talk  with  you 
for  hours,  yet  you  need  rest,  and  must  seek  it  immediately. 
Helen,  you  are  in  my  house.  My  sister,  your  cousin  Mabel, 
lives  here  with  me ;  and,  henceforth,  it  shall  be  your  home, 
and  your  child's,  for  I  am  to  be  a  father  to  you  both,  you 
know.  Now  God  bless  you,  and  good-night." 

He  pressed  a  kiss  of  deep  tenderness  upon  my  brow,  and 
left  me.  A  servant  immediately  entered  the  room  with  re 
freshments.  After  I  had  eaten,  she  led  the  way  to  an  elegant 
chamber.  It  seemed  like  magic,  to  be  transplanted  thus  sud 
denly  from  misery  and  a  grave-yard,  to  happiness,  and  a  quiet, 
beautiful  home. 

The  girl,  after  undressing  Willie,  placed  him  gently  in  the 
bed,  a,nd  left  the  room.  But  I  could  not  yet  retire.  I  sat,  for 
hours,  by  that  glowing  grate,  trying  to  realize  the  wonderful 
transformation  my  fortunes  had  undergone  within  a  few  hours. 
One,  two,  three,  sounded  from  the  city  clock,  and  I  was  still 
sitting  by  the  fire,  buried  deep  in  the  cushions  of  that  luxurious 
chair.  I  was  too  happy  to  sleep,  —  too  blest.  I  loved,  and 
my  love  was  returned  ten-fold ;  I  esteemed  and  reverenced, 
and  the  object  was  more  than  worthy  of  it  all ;  I  hoped  and 
trusted,  and  was  sure  that  my  trust  was  not  in  vain. 

But  I  had  not  been  false  to  Roland;  for  I  loved  what  I 
supposed  was  good  aqd  noble  in  him,  and  when  I  found  that  he 
did  not  possess,  and  perhaps  never  had  possessed  these  qual 
ities,  where  was  my  love?  Grone,  and  gone  as  much  as  if  it 
had  never  existed.  My  affections  were  warm  and  ardent ;  but 


BOSTON     COMMON.  467 

only  where  virtue  dwelt  could  they  live.  I  could  not  love 
vice  ;  for  I  had  learned,  by  fearful  experience,  to  put  my  trust 
only  in  what  was  good  and  noble. 

But  here  I  sat,  and  sat  for  hours.  I  was  spell-bound.  The 
enchantment  was  complete.  The  magician  Happiness  had 
taken  my  soul,  and  lapped  it  in  elysium.  I  no  longer  recog 
nized  sorrow.  Joy,  deep  and  fervent  joy,  thrilled  through 
every  vein.  And  now  it  is  four  o'clock,  and  I  must  indeed 
seek  my  pillow.  Ernest,  dear  Ernest,  would  not  approve  of 
ray  sitting  up  so  late,  even  to  ponder  over  him. 

As  soon  as  this  thought  came  into  my  mind,  as  if  he  had 
commanded  me,  I  arose,  and  prepared  to  retire.  Before  doing 
so,  however,  I  breathed  a  deep  and  fervent  thanksgiving  to 
the  kind  Father  from  whom  all  blessings  come.  I  thanked 
him  for  bringing  Ernest  and  myself  together  in  so  wonderful 
a  manner,  and  prayed  him  that  he  would  unite  us,  and  make 
us  worthy  laborers  in  his  vineyard. 

The  angels,  surely,  must  have  kept  watch  around  my  pillow; 
for  never  did  sweeter  dreams  visit  mortal  before,  —  never 
balmier  sleep.  And  then  the  awaking,  so  soft  and  gentle, 
with,  at  first,  the  faint  remembrance  of  some  half-forgotten 
joy,  like  the  dawning  of  day;  then  growing  brighter  and 
brighter,  until  the  whole  glorious  sun  bursts  forth,  and  fills 
every  nook  and  avenue  with  the  beams  of  light  and  happiness  ! 


CHAPTER    XLVII. 

"  With  such  unshaken  temper  of  the  soul, 
To  bear  the  swelling  tide  of  prosperous  fortune, 
Is  to  deserve  that  fortune.     In  adversity 
The  mind  grows  tough,  by  buffeting  the  tempest ; 
But  in  success,  dissolving,  sinks  to  ease, 
And  loses  all  her  firmness." 

WAS  there  ever  a  happier  party  than  that  which  met  around 
that  pleasant  breakfast-table,  the  next  morning  ?  All  seemed 
so  bright  and  cheerful.  The  broad  sunshine  streamed  into 
the  windows,  and  glistened  the  silver-plate,  the  glowing  fire 
upon  the  hearth,  the  elegant  chairs,  carpet,  books,  and  every 
means  of  comfort.  And,  then,  the  happy  party ! 

There  sat  Ernest,  with  his  noble,  intellectual  brow,  large, 
dark  eyes,  and  a  calm,  quiet  indication  of  deep  joy  resting 
upon  each  lineament.  And  there  was  cpusin  Mabel,  in  her  neat 
morning-dress,  and  rich  brown  hair  combed  smoothly  back, 
pouring  out  the  steaming  coffee,  and  doing  the  honors  of  the 
table  with  such  a  quiet  grace.  Next  to  Ernest  sat  the  new 
guests,  joy  lighting  up  every  feature ;  —  and,  altogether,  we 
made  such  a  happy  party  as  is  seldom  seen  in  this  dark  world. 

"And  now,  Nellie,"  said  Ernest,  leading  me  to  the  parlor, 
after  our  meal  was  over,  "  all  business  must  be  suspended  to 
day,  while  I  tell  you  what  has  befallen  me  since  I  left  you. 
We  will,  I  think,  devote  this  day  to  retrospection." 


BOSTON     COMMON.  469 

We  seated  ourselves  upon  the  sofa,  and  Ernest  began  his 
adventures.  Long  and  interesting  were  the  tales  he  told  of 
distant  lands.  He  described  the  noble  castles,  palaces,  and 
bridges,  of  England;  the  pleasant  fields  and  vines  of  France; 
the  glowing  landscapes  of  Spain ;  the  bold,  rugged  scenery 
of  the  Apennines;  the  soft  purple  skies  of  Italy,  and  the 
grandeur  and  sublimity  of  the  Alps. 

"  I  arrived  at  home,  Nellie,"  said  he,  in  conclusion,  "  about 
three  weeks  ago.  I  found  that  my  father  and  mother  had 
both  died  during  my  absence,  and  left  me  this  house  and  fur 
niture,  together  with  a  considerable  sum  of  money  in  the  bank. 
The  remainder  of  their  property  was  equally  divided  between 
Gerald  and  Mabel.  I  had  now  a  comfortable  home  ;  and,  as 
I  took  immediate  possession  of  my  ministry,  I  shall  always 
have  enough,  thank  God,  to  live  in  ease  and  plenty. 

"  Immediately  upon  my  return,  I  wrote  to  my  eastern  cor 
respondent,  and  desired  him  to  give  me  every  particular  con 
cerning  you.  In  a  week,  I  received  a  long  letter,  in  answer  to 
mine,  stating  all  that  had  befallen  you  since  my  departure, 
even  to  the  final  catastrophe,  and  your  flight  from  home.  My 
correspondent  also  added  that  you  were  living  somewhere  in 
Boston ;  he  did  not  know  of  your  address,  but  referred  me  to 
your  mother. 

"  I  wrote  to  aunt  Hettie,  and  she  replied  by  saying  that 

you  were  boarding  in street,  and  No.  — ,  and  that,  from 

your  last  letter,  she  feared  you  were  in  a  bad  state  of  health ; 
that  your  troubles  had  severely  preyed  upon  your  mind,  and 
that  all  her  persuasions  to  induce  you  to  return  home  had 
been  unavailing. 

"  I  received  the  letter  yesterday,  Helen.  Full  of  grief  and 
40 


470  BOSTON     COMMON. 

sympathy  for  you,  I  started  immediately  for  your  boarding- 
house.  What  was  mysurprise  and  regret  to  find  it  a  black 
ened  ruin !  I  entered  a  shop  near  by,  and  inquired,  in  a 
trembling  voice,  if  any  of  the  inmates  had  perished.  The  shop 
keeper  told  me  that  all  had  been  saved",  and  also  related  his 
rencounter  with  one  of  the  unfortunates.  He  described  her 
appearance  so  accurately  that  I  felt  assured  i!  could  be  none 
other  than  you ;  and,  after  thanking  the  man,  I  returned  home, 
determined  to  advertise  for  you,  should  I  not  succeed  in  as 
certaining  your  whereabouts. 

"  I  searched  several  hours  among  the  boarding-houses  for 
you,  but,  not  meeting  with  the  success  I  hoped  for,  visited 
every  hotel  in  the  city.  I  found  you  not ;  and,  as  night  was 
now  coming  on,  I  again  returned  home,  resolving  to  prosecute 
my  search  on  the  morrow. 

"  After  tea,  I  had  occasion  to  visit  one  of  my  parishioners, 
who  lives  near  the  head  of  Boylston-street.  I  returned  through 
the  Common,  and,  passing  near  the  cemetery,  stopped  a  mo 
ment  to  look  at  Harry's  grave.  What  was  my  astonishment 
on  beholding  a  woman  lying  there,  with  an  infant  in  her  arms  ! 
Surprised,  and  scarcely  knowing  what  course  to  take,  I  climbed 
slowly  over  the  fence,  and  approached  her  softly,  so  as  not  to 
alarm  her  too  suddenly. 

"  When  half-way  between  the  fence  and  grave,  a  wild,  in 
definable  feeling  took  possession  of  my  heart,  and  the  thought 
that  it  was,  perhaps,  Willie  and  you,  almost  overpowered  me. 

"  As  I  approached  nearer,  my  suspicions  were  confirmed ; 
and  the  circumstance  of  your  being  there  at  that  time  of  the 
night  was  so  strange,  so  unaccountable,  that  I  lost -all  presence 
of  mind,  and  scarcely  knew  what  I  did. 


BOSTON     COMMON.  471 

"  I  discovered,  however,  that  it  was  indeed  you,  Nellie ; 
and  my  sudden  appearance  and  exclamation  deprived  you  of 
sense.  I  laid  you  tenderly  upon  the  mound,  and,  fast  as  my 
trembling  limbs  would  carry  me,  went  after  a  carriage. 

"  About  ten  minutes  after,  we  were  rolling  towards  Summer- 
street;  and  I  was  satisfied,  was  happy  once  more,  for  I  held 
you  and  your  babe  close  in  these  arms,  and  was  half  sorry 
when  the  carriage  stopped,  and  we  were  at  home." 

Ernest  then  desired  me  to  tell  him  what  had  befallen  me 
since  I  left  Linden,  and  how  I  came  to  be  wandering  in  a 
lonely  grave-yard  by  night.  I  told  him  of  that  long,  dark  pe 
riod,  when  all  hope,  all  happiness,  had  departed ;  when,  turn 
whichever  way  I  would,  all  seemed  a  gloomy,  barren  wilder 
ness,  where  not  a  ray  of  hope  penetrated  the  dark  regions  of 
my  heart. 

I  told  him,  also,  how  my  poverty  had  first  awakened  me  to 
a  sense  of  my  situation,  —  of  my  unavailing  efforts  to  obtain 
music-scholars,  and  of  the  fire.  Then  came  the  events  of  that 
sad  day,  when,  gloomy  and  dispirited,  I  had  wandered  around 
the  city  in  search  of  a  place  to  rest  in.  I  related  the  meeting 
with  Letitia,  the  little  note ;  and  then  told  him  of  the  bitter 
disappointment,  the  cruel  shock  I  received  from  the  servant ; 
and,  also,  of  the  long,  tedious  hours  of  suspense  in  which  I 
waited  for  Letitia,  hoping  that  she  might  yet  arrive. 

I  told  him,  also,  of  that  lonely  evening  I  spent  upon  the 
Common,  when  I  sat  gloomily  pondering  upon  my  unhappy 
situation,  while  my  unconscious  child  played  at  my  feet.  Then 
of  the  strange  idea  that  the  best  place  to  pass  the  night  would 
be  by  Harry's  grave.  I  told  him  how  I  sought  the  lonely 
spot,  and  succeeded  in  clambering  over  the  fence  with  my 


472  BOSTON     COMMON. 

sleeping  child ;  then  how  I  had  seated  myself  upon  the  hal 
lowed  turf,  and  mused  long  and  deeply  upon  the  absent  one. 
How  that  his  image  had  filled  my  sad  heart  with  love  and  joy, 
and  invested  it  with  new  hopes,  new  life ;  and  then  of  the 
agony  I  endured  in  supposing  my  love  had  come  too  late,  — 
that  he  was  far  away,  perhaps  dead !  and  then  of  my  prayer, 
and  sinking  to  rest  in  a  grave-yard. 

I  also  told  him  of  the  blessed  vision  I  had  seen,  which 
seemed  so  startling  and  lifelike  that  I  had  believed  it  reality, 
until  I  awoke,  and  found  it  a  dream. 

And,  finally,  I  told  him  of  the  experiment  I  had  tried,  in  order 
to  win  back  the  beloved  form  once  more ;  and  the  result  of  my 
experiment, —  the  blessed  consummation  of  hope,  love,  and  joy. 

Again  did  tears  fill  those  large  eyes,  again  did  emotion 
shake  that  strong  frame,  as  I  related  my  sufferings,  and,  at 
the  close,  placed  my  hand  confidingly  in  his,  and  thanked  him 
earnestly  for  all  his  love  and  kindness  to  me,  during  so  many, 
many  years. 

"  Helen,"  said  Ernest,  "  how  glad  should  I  have  been,  long 
years  ago,  to  have  gathered  you  to  my  breast,  and  saved  you 
from  the  least  shadow  of  all  these  bitter  sufferings  !  But  you 
are  now  safe ;  and  never,  if  I  can  prevent  it,  shall  one  ray  of 
sadness  darken  that  heart  again.  Never  shall  my  Helen  again 
be  a  wanderer,  without  food  or  shelter ;  never  shall  she  know 
want,  privation,  or  care,  more.  I  bless  the  hand  of  Providence, 
that  brought  me  to  your  side  last  evening.  What  would  have 
been  your  fate,  had  you  remained  many  hours  longer  in  the 
cold  night  air,  is  more  than  I  can  tell.  I  think  you  would 
have  been  chilled  to  death,  long  before  morning.  I  tremble 
to  think  what  would  have  been  my  sensations,  had  I  found  you 


BOSTON     COMMON.  473 

both  dead  upon  Harry's  grave.  I  fear  that  even  my  strength 
of  mind  would  not  have  survived  so  cruel  a  shock.  Blessed 
be  God  that  he  averted  the  blow,  and  sent  me  to  your  rescue. 

"  And  now,  Helen,  you  are  safe,  and  you  love  me ;  what 
can  I  ask  for  more  ?  " 

"  But  you  have  changed,  Ernest.  You  are  larger,  darker, 
and  much  older,  than  when  last  we  met.  Your  eyes  have  a 
deeper,  more  thoughtful  cast ;  your  brow  seems  knitted  with 
care,  and  your  hair  is  sprinkled  with  silver." 

"  I  am  well  aware  of  all  these  changes,  Helen.  Travel 
ling  and  exposure  in  the  sun  have  darkened  my  complexion. 
I  have  studied  and  thought  a  deal,  and  that  is  the  cause  of 
the  care  upon  my  brow.  And  the  hair  — ' 

"  And  the  hair,  Ernest  ?  " 

"  Never  mind  the  hair,  Nellie,  —  that  is  past.  You  are 
restored,  and  you  love  me ;  and,  if  my  hair  were  all  gray,  I 
should  rejoice  in  any  change,  any  affliction,  that  brought  you 
back,  good  and  pure,  to  these  arms. 

"  But  you,  too,  are  changed,  my  Nellie.  Your  eyes  tell  a 
deep  tale  of  sorrow ;  your  brow  is  pensive,  and  there  is  a 
thoughtfulness  and  paleness  in  your  once  merry,  sparkling 
face,  that  is  painful  to  look  upon.  Your  hair,  that  once 
played  in  sportive  curls  over  your  brow,  is  now  combed 
smoothly  back ;  and  your  whole  air  is  different,  quite  different, 
from  the  happy,  cheerful  Nellie  Clifton  that  I  parted  from 
years  ago. 

"  Helen,  we  are  older  than  we  were.     A  few  years  have 

passed,  to  be  sure  ;  but  they  have  laid  their  fingers  upon  us 

rather  roughly.     We  have  grown  older  —  have  ripened..    We 

were  but  in  the  blossom  then  —  in  the  spring-time ;  now  it  u} 

40* 


474  BOSTON     COMMON. 

sweet  summer  with  us.  The  change  is  rather  agreeable  than 
otherwise  to  me.  We  have  not  the  same  freshness  of  feel 
ing  as  then,  Helen,  but.  a  deeper  cast  of  thought.  'T  is  not 
the  first  blush  of  the  half-opened  bud,  but  the  rich  color  of 
the  fragrant  rose ;  not  the  faint  dawning  of  morn,  but  the 
whole  sunshine  of  the  glorious  day ;  not  the  half-finished 
painting,  but  the  completed  picture,  with  all  its  lights  and 
shades,  brought  to  perfection. 

"  Helen,  we  are  matured — are  finished;  and  we  can  now 
sit  down  and  calmly  enjoy  the  remainder  of  this  life,  with 
out  experiencing  the  shocks  incident  to  young  minds,  whom 
grief  assails  for  the  first  time.  Should  sorrow  again  visit  our 
path,  we  can  better  endure  its  sting ;  for  we  know  and  recog 
nize  the  hand  that  sends  it. 

"  Had  we  known  no  sorrow,  my  Helen,  we  should  not  have 
known  how  to  prize  our  blessings ;  had  you  never  married 
Roland  Hastings,  and  endured  so  much  from  associating  with 
vice,  you  would  never  have  known  how  to  prize  virtue  — 
would  never  have  loved  and  appreciated  so  widely  the  differ 
ence  ;  had  we  sat  down  in  peace  and  plenty,  and  taken  God's 
gifts  without  laboring  £>r  them,  we  might  have  grown  cold, 
selfish,  and  ungrateful,  towards  Him ;  and,  when  death  had 
overtaken  us,  how  anxiously  should  we  still  have  clung  to 
earth,  how  unwillingly  drawn  our  parting  breath,  and  how 
unprepared  should  we  have  been  for  eternity  ! 

"  I,  therefore,  bless  God  for  all  our  sorrows.  He  has 
brought  us  —  especially  you,  my  Helen  —  very  low;  but  still 
can  we  see  the  mercy  that  dealt  the  blow  —  still  behold  the  kind 
Father  in  all  our  trials ;  and  now,  with  sufferings  purified, 
minds  matured  and  strengthened,  and  hearts  filled  with  love 


BOSTON     COMMON.  475 

to  God  and  each  other,  we  are  ready  to  go  forth  once  more, 
again  to  encounter  life's  trials,  to  bear  whatever  he  pleases  to 
send,  and  to  live  as  he  directs." 

For  hours  we  sat  thus  conversing  together  in  that  quiet 
parlor ;  and  so  unmindful  were  we  of  time,  that  they  were 
obliged  to  summon  us  twice  to  dinner  ere  we  understood  the 
signal. 

After  dinner,  Ernest  went  out  to  attend  to  some  of  his 
parochial  duties,  while  I  sought  my  chamber  to  unpack  my 
trunks,  that  had  been  sent  for  in  the  morning.  How  happy 
was  I,  when  I  took  all  my  pretty  dresses  and  hung  them  up 
in  the  closet,  that  I  had  made  them  over  so  nicely !  They 
were  not  very  fashionable  or  gay,  to  be  sure,  but  looked  just 
the  thing  for  that  calm,  sweet  place  —  that  minister's  home. 

I  arranged  all  my  clothes ;  put  my  writing-desk,  work-box, 
and  books,  in  their  proper  places ;  then,  dressing  myself  and 
Willie  very  neatly,  descended  to  the  parlor. 

Cousin  Mabel  was  there,  and  entertained  me  with  a  nice 
long  chat  concerning  family  matters,  &c.  She  told  me  how 
she  had  wept  when  her  parents  died ;  and  how  she  had  shut 
up  the  dear  old  house  and  gone  away  to  live  with  Gerald, 
until  Ernest  came  back ;  how  she  had  hastened  to  the  city 
and  sought  him  upon  his  return,  and  how  sad  she  felt  at  see 
ing  him  appear  so  gloomy  and  dispirited,  and  how  she  had 
undertaken  to  be  his  little  housekeeper,  to  comfort  his  great 
heart,  and  make  it  grow  warm  and  sunshiny. 

And  then  the  remainder  of  the  conversation  fell  altogether 
upon  Ernest ;  and  we  were  never  weary  of  dwelling  upon  his 
goodness,  his  piety,  and  nobleness  of  heart. 

Mabel  told  me  that  Ernest  occupied  a  very  high  station  in 


476  BOSTON     COMMON. 

the  ministry ;  that  he  had  a  large  and  wealthy  congregation, 
and  that  his  so  suddenly  entering  upon  his  duties  had  caused 
a  great  excitement  among  his  people ;  that  the  house  had  been 
filled  to  overflqwing  every  Sabbath,  and  that  his  noble  bear 
ing,  deep,  unaffected  piety,  and  zeal  in  the  cause,  had  already 
had  a  great  influence  upon  the  people ;  also  that  they  were 
willing  to  come  to  any  terms,  or  make  any  sacrifice,  rather 
than  lose  their  new  pastor. 

"  But,"  added  my  cousin,  "  there  is  not  the  slightest  danger 
of  that.  Ernest  now  considers  himself  settled  for  life.  He 
is  weary  of  travelling,  and  glad  to  repose  after  his  pilgrim 
age."  ' 

We  talked  and  played  with  Willie  until  Ernest  returned. 
Then  came  the  pleasant  tea-table,  with  the  dear  circle  gath 
ered  round  its  inviting  board  ;  then  the  calm  evening  hour, 
when  we  listened  as  Ernest  read  and  talked  with  us ;  then 
the  devotions,  —  the  thanksgiving  to  God,  —  and,  after,  the 
quiet  hour  of  repose. 


CHAPTER    XLVIII. 

*       "  Small  is  the  worth 
Of  beauty  from  the  light  retired  ; 

Bid  her  come  forth, 
Suffer  herself  to  be  desired, 
And  not  blush  so  to  be  admired." 

EDMUND  WALLER. 

"  A  HAPPY  New-Year  to  you,  cousin  Ernest,"  said  I,  one 
morning,  about  a  week  after  the  events  related  in  the  last 
chapter ;  "  and  I  trust  it  will  be  a  very  happy  one  to  you  all 
through  the  year." 

"  Thank  you,  dear  Nellie ;  but  do  not  be  too  sanguine. 
Something  may  occur  to  vex  and  trouble  us  both  before  the 
year  is  out ;  therefore  we  will  endeavor  to  be  prepared  for 
whatever  comes." 

"  Now,  Ernest,"  said  I  to  him,  after  breakfast,  "  I  have  a 
great  request  to  ask  of  you.  Will  you  be  very  sure  to  grant 
it?" 

"  That  depends  upon  what  it  is,"  he  replied,  smiling.  "  If 
it  will  contribute  to  your  good,  I  will  certainly  grant  it." 

"  But  what  if  it  will  only  make  me  happy  ?  "  I  asked. 

"Why,  then,  —  we  shall  see,  we  shall  see,"  he  replied. 
"  What  is  your  request,  Helen?  " 


478  BOSTON     COMMON. 

"  Why,  you  know,  cousin  Ernest,  that  I  am  very  poor, 
and  I  —  I  want  to  try  and  do  something  for  myself.  If  you 
will  obtain  for  me  a  few  music-scholars,  or  find  some  one  who 
will  do  this  in  your  place,  I  will  be  so  much  obliged !  Will 
you  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Ernest !  but  I  must  have  them  ;  and,  if  you  do  not  want 
to  get  them  for  me,  may  I  try  myself?  " 

"  No."  * 

"  And  why  not,  dear  Ernest,  if  you  please  ?  " 

He  took  my  hand,  and  led  me  to  the  glass.  "  Look, 
Helen,"  said  he,  "  at  that  worn-down  frame,  those  sunken 
eyes,  and  the  whole  sorrowful  countenance.  I  want  you," 
he  continued,  "  to  take  very  good  care  of  yourself,  —  to  grow 
happy,  cheerful,  and  robust.  I  want  your  figure  to  resume 
its  roundness,  your  eyes  their  brilliancy,  and  your  step  its 
lightness.  In  short,  I  wish  you  to  be  one  of  the  most  merry- 
hearted,  cheerful  little  beings  in  the  city  ;  and,  in  order  to  do 
this,  you  must  keep  your  mind  free  from  care,  your  conscience 
from  reproach,  and  your  heart  warm  and  kind.  You  will 
find  plenty  to  do  at  home,  without  going  abroad  hunting  up 
music-scholars.  You  can  keep  your  wardrobe  in  perfect 
order,  take  care  of  and  amuse  Willie,  assist  Mabel  in  her 
housekeeping,  if  you  choose,  practise,  draw,  read,  and  do  all 
sorts  of  things.  Besides,  I  would  like  that  you  should  assist 
me,  once  in  a  while,  —  will  you  do  it? " 

"  Readily,  Ernest,  only  tell  me  how.'i 

"Well,  then,  as  you  write  so  very  prettily,  you  may  copy 
my  sermons  for  me  when  I  am  in  a  hurry,  or  read  to  me 
when  I  am  weary,  or  sing  and  play  to  me  after  tea,  or  go 


BOSTON     COMMON.  ^  479 

with  me  sometimes  to  visit  my  poor  parishioners.  0,  there  is 
plenty  for  you  to  do  !  You  can  stay  right  at  home,  comfort 
our  hearts,  and  diffuse  your  own  bright,  happy  spirit  about  the 
house.  This  is  all  you  need  do,  Helen." 

Dear  Ernest !  —  and  that  was  all  I  did  do,  and  my  time 
was  all  occupied.  I  had  not  a  moment  to  spare  ;  and,  indeed, 
the  moments  sped  so  quickly,  that  I  was  almost  angry  at  their 
flight,  and  tried  not  to  be  quite  so  happy. 

I  soon  discovered  that  Ernest  was  greatly  beloved  by  his 
congregation  ;  that  they  all  honored  him,  and  listened  eagerly 
for  the  glowing  words  that  fell  from  his  lips.  How  noble  he 
looked  in  the  sacred  desk,  as  he  stood  there  in  all  the  glory 
of  his  mighty  intellect,  and  discoursed  so  eloquently  of  the 
sublime  things  that  lie  beyond  the  twilight  of  the  tomb,  or 
broke  the  bread  of  heaven  to  his  waiting  people  !  How  did 
my  whole  soul  warm  and  revivify  under  the  cheering  beams 
of  Gospel  light  that  were  breathed  from  his  tongue  ;  and  how 
closely  drawn  did  I  feel  to  God,  as  he  talked  and  pondered  of 
His  boundless  love  and  might ! 

Ernest  Richmond  was  one  of  those  shepherds  who  labor  for 
love  ;  and,  although  receiving  a  bountiful  salary  from  a  grate 
ful  people,  nearly  half  of  it  was  spent  in  charities,  and  in  the 
service  of  God.  He  poured  forth  the  doctrines  of  the  Bible 
in  simple,  truthful  language,  and  threw  his  whole  soul  into 
the  cause.  He  was  a  bright  and  noble  spirit,  a  faithful  ser 
vant,  an  unwearied  laborer  in  the  vineyard.  Would  to  Heaven 
there  were  many  more  such ! 

We  had  a  deal  of  company  at  our  house,  consisting  princi 
pally  of  the  church.  How  many  noble,  intellectual  spirits  did 
I  meet  here  ;  and  how  many  hours  have  I  sat  gleaning  words 
of  truth  and  wisdom  that  fell  from  their  lips ! 


480  BOSTON     COMMON. 

X 

Among  the  visitors  in  our  refined  circle  were  two  young 
gentlemen  who  particularly  claimed  my  attention.  Edward 
Dennison  and  Robert  Everett  were  partners  together  in  a 
mercantile  firm  in  the  city.  '  They  were  blessed  with  all  that 
this  world  holds  good,  and  were  highly  cultivated  and  intel 
lectual  young  men.  They  were  constant  visitors  at  our  house, 
and  I  soon  perceived  that  one  of  them  had  a  more  than  com 
mon  interest  there.  He  evidently  admired  my  cousin,  Mabel 
Richmond,  exceedingly ;  and  she  was,  indeed,  a  sweet  girl. 
Not  very  handsome,  —  for  beauty  was  not  excessively  lavish 
of  her  gifts  in  our  family,  —  but  she  possessed  those  charms 
and  graces  of  mind  that  outshine  all  beauty's  powers,  and 
throw  her  quite  into  the  shade. 

That  Edward  Dennison  deeply  loved  Mabel  Richmond  was 
soon  quite  evident,  and  that  she  as  sincerely  returned  his 
affection  was  as  true.  I  rejoiced  to  see  these  lovers  together, 
and  helped  forward  their  passion  all  in  my  power ;  but  I  often 
pitied  poor  Robert,  when  I  saw  his  friend  forsaking  his  soci 
ety,  evening  after  evening,  for  that  of  my  cousin  Mabel. 
He  w'as  soon  provided  for,  however,  and  in  a  manner  as  unex 
pected  to  me  as  it  was  delightful. 

I  have  not  mentioned  my  old  friend  Katherine  Merton 
for  a  long  time  ;  but  I  have  not  forgotten  her  in  the  least. 
Scarcely  a  month  had  elapsed,  since  our  separation,  with 
out  my  receiving  a  long,  affectionate  letter  from  her.  I  had 
written  to  her  concerning  my  troubles  as  fast  as  they  occurred, 
and,  in  return,  had  met  with  her  unwearied  sympathy  and 
affection. 

Kate  had  been  for  many  months  residing  at  the  South  with 
her  mother ;  but,  as  that  mother's  health  was  now  nearly  re- 


BOSTON     COMMON.  481 

stored,  they  started  for  home,  and  arrived  in  Boston  about  the 
last  of  January. 

Mrs.  Merton  immediately  pursued  her  journey  home,  as  her 
family  were  anxiously  awaiting  her  return  ;  but  Katherine 
was,  by  our  earnest  solicitations,  prevailed  upon  to  remain  with 
us  for  the  rest  of  the  winter. 

In  adding  this  cherished  friend  to  our  circle,  my  joy  was 
now  complete.  Every  link  was  there  ;  all  were  most  happily 
united. 

Kate  soon  admired  Ernest  as  much  as  I  had  wished  her  to  ; 
and  he,  in  return,  was  equally  pleased  with  her.  I  had  told 
her,  in  a  jesting  manner,  soon  after  her  arrival,  that  I  was 
going  to  introduce  her  to  a  very  fine  gentleman. 

"  Poor  fellow  !  "  said  I,  "  he  is  so  very  lonely,  that  you 
must  try  and  fall  in  love  with  him  immediately.  Handsome, 
intellectual,  and  with  other  qualities  suited  to  your  taste,  he 
is  just  the  man  for  you." 

"  Poh !  "  answered  my  invulnerable  Katie,  "  I  shall  not 
fall  in  love  to  please  you ;  so  set  your  heart  at  rest,  my  little 
match-maker ! " 

"  0,  yes,  you  will,  Katherine  !  I  am  quite  determined  that 
this  conquering  hero  shall  take  your  heart  by  storm.  So  pre 
pare  yourself  for  a  serious  struggle." 

"  0,  Nellie,  how  very  strangely  you  talk  !  I  shall  never 
love,  —  never  !  It  is  quite  too  late,  at  my  time  of  life,  to 
think  of  falling  in  love,  as  you  term  it." 

"  "We  shall  see,  we  shall  see,  my  venerable  lady ! "  I 
replied. 

And  we  did  see ;  for  Robert  Everett  and  Katherine  Mer 
ton  were  introduced  to  each  other,  and  I  heard  no  more 
41 


4.82  BOSTON     COMMON. 

of  his  loneliness.  He  and  my  friend  were  forever  together, 
and  seemed  quite  unmindful  that  there  were  any  other  per 
sons  in  the  world  but  themselves  who  had  a  claim  upon 
their  attention. 


CHAPTER    XLIX. 

"  Just  then,  young  Love  himself  came  by, 
And  cast  on  Youth  a  smiling  eye  : 
Who  could  resist  that  glance's  ray  ? 
In  vain  did  Age  his  warning  say, 
Repentance  !     Eepentance  ! 
Youth,  laughing,  went  with  Love  away." 

THOMAS  MOORE. 

"  WELL,  Katie,"  said  I,  one  morning,  about  a  month  after 
her  arrival,  "  for  whom  are  you  marking  those  handkerchiefs, 
pray  ?  One  would  suppose  they  were  for  the  President,  you 
take  such  pains  with  them." 

Katie  looked  up,  and  blushed.  "  0,"  she  replied,  '.'  they 
are  for  only  Mr.  Everett !  " 

"  Only  Mr.  Everett !  Indeed !  —  but  I  heard  him  tell  you 
last  evening  to  call  him  only  Robert,  did  I  not  ?  " 

Kate  laughed.  "  Well,  and  if  you  did,  where  is  the  harm, 
pray  ?  " 

"  None  in  the  world.  I  think  it  a  very  good  plan,  I  'in 
sure.  You  call  Ernest  and  Edward  by  their  given  names ; 
why  not  call  Robert  by  his  ?  It  seems  quite  strange,  how 
ever,  that  you  had  to  be  told  to  do  it.  I  think  Robert  a  very 
fine  name,  don't  you,  Kate  ?  " 


484  BOSTON      COMMON. 

"  Why,  no  —  not  exactly.  It  sounds  too  much  like  '  Rob 
ert,  the  Black  Pirate,'  or  '  Roberto,  the  Bandit,'  or  something 
of  that  sort,  to  suit  my  taste." 

"  No  pirate  or  bandit,  at  all.  It  is  a  pretty  name,  and  a 
musical  name,  and  a  fine,  pleasant  gentleman  who  bears  it  — 
hey,  Kate  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes ;  he 's  well  enough,  and  pleasant  enough." 

"  And  a  delightful  companion  —  handsome,  agreeable,  &c.?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,"  answered  Kate,  as  she  made  a  very  large 
"  R,"  uncommonly  black,  I  thought. 

"  You  do  not  know  ?  I  wonder  who  does,  if  you  do  not. 
You  have  tested  his  companionship  by  the  heur  together ; 
and  one  would  suppose  you  thought  it  the  best  in  the  world, 
for  you  seem  to  be  entirely  absorbed  in  what  he  is  saying,  — 
so  much  so,  that  you  have  no  time  to  attend  even  to  my  simple 
wants  and  requests." 

"  0,  Helen  !  how  can  you  ?  " 

"  It 's  a  fact.     For  instance :  last  evening  you  sat  in  a 

corner  of  the  sofa  with  him  more  than  two  hours.     Ernest, 

Edward,  and  Mabel,  had  gone  out ;  Willie  was  asleep  ;   and 

9  there  sat  your  cherished  friend  Helen,  with  not  a  soul  to 

speak  to,  for  those  long,  long  hours. 

"  Well,  I  bore  it  as  long  as  I  could,  and  then  resolved, 
lover  or  no  lover,  boldly  to  stand  up  for  my  own  rights.  With 
all  my  bravery,  however,  my  resolution  failed  me  as  I  ap 
proached  the  sofa.  After  considering  a  moment,  as  all  wise 
people  do,  I  plucked  up  the  courage  to  speak.  '  My  dear 
Katherine,'  said  I,  in  the  sweetest  of  voices,  '  will  you  lend 
me  your  Henriade  a  few  moments  ? '  My  words  were  very 
soft,  and  my  request  quite  modest ;  but  I  might  as  well  have 


BOSTON     COMMON.  485 

spoken  to  the  winds,  for  you  paid  not  the  slightest  heed  to 
me.  I  repeated  my  question ;  but  still  you  heard  me  not.  I 
then  thought  of  some  other  plan ;  so  I  turned,  suddenly,  and 
tipped  over  a  chair  at  the  other  corner  of  the  room.  Fearing 
for  my  rashness,  however,  I  immediately  darted  behind  the 
window-curtain.  This  experiment  was  as  unlucky  as  the  other. 
You  only  turned  slightly  around,  and  uttered  the  little  word 
'  scat ! '  Voila  chose  d'extraordinaire,  to  think  that  you 
should  say  '  scat '  to  your  own  Helen !  I  comforted  myself, 
however,  by  thinking  that  none  but  a  Robert  Everett  could  be 
the  cause  of  your  using  such  language  to  your  friend." 

"  Helen,"  said  Kate,  with  much  seriousness,  "  you  are  a 
saucy  Helen,  and  a  dear  Helen,  and  a  good,  tormenting  Helen ; 
but  I  will — yes,  I  think  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it,  if  you  will 
leave  jesting,  and  listen.  Can  you?" 

"  De  tout  mon  coeur,  ma  belle." 

"Well,  then,  Robert  and  myself  are  engaged;  and  it  was 
that  that  engaged  us  so  very  closely  in  conversation,  last 
evening." 

I  embraced  her.  "  Dearest  Kate,  you  are  a  noble  pair, 
and  quite  worthy  of  each  other.  But  do  you  love  him  ?  " 

"  He  loves  me,  and  —  and  I  love  him,  too,  Nell.  But  what 
are  you  smiling  at,  and  in  what  channel  of  sarcasm  are  your 
thoughts  running  now  ?  " 

"  I  smiling,  Kate !  —  I  sarcastic  !  I  am  so  very  glad  to  hear 
of  your  happiness,  that  I  will  not  even  accuse  you  of  incon 
sistency." 

"  Inconsistent,  Nellie  '  what  mean  you?  " 

"  Nothing  in  particular ;  only  that  you  have  told  ,me,  time 
41* 


486  BOSTON     COMMON. 

and  time  again,  you  never  would,  and  never  could,  and  never 
should  love,  you  know." 

"  0,  nonsense,  Nellie !    But  I  did  not  know  Robert  then." 

"  I  am  well  aware  of  that ;  and,  as  there  never  was  another 
Robert  like  yours,  —  at  least,  in  your  estimation,  —  you  are 
forgiven.  And  I  hope  you  will  be  so  very  happy,  my  Kate, 
so  very  joyous!  —  0,  I  wish  you  all  the  blessings  in  the 
world !  " 

"  Thank  you,  Helen." 

And  so  Kate  really  loved,  at  last,  and  was  engaged ;  and  a 
happy  company  were  we,  that  winter.  How  quickly  did  the 
golden  moments  speed,  and  how  very  soon  the  days  began 
to  grow  longer  and  warmer !  and,  at  last,  the  bright  April 
had  come,  with  its  sunshine  and  showers,  its  opening  buds 
and  tender  blossoms;  and  the  brooks  had  broken  their  icy 
fetters,  and  the  birds  were  building  their  nests,  and  singing 
their  love-songs  to  each  other,  ere  our  little  circle  was 
broken  up. 

Kate  and  myself  were  about  to  separate  once  more.  She 
was  going  home,  to  spend  her  last  summer  in  sweet  Linden, 
and  to  prepare  for  her  bridal. 

Before  her  departure,  Mrs.  Everett,  Robert's  mother,  was 
to  have  a  large  party,  to  which  we  were  all  invited.  I 
wished  to  go,  on  Katie's  account,  and  wanted  very  much  to 
know  whether  Ernest  would  accompany  us  or  not.  I  went 
into  his  study,  determined  to  find  out  his  mind  upon  the  sub 
ject  without  going  to  much  trouble  about  it.  He  was  writing, 
and  only  glanced  at  me  with  a  smile  as  I  entered,  and  again 
resumed  his  employment.  Was  there  ever  anything  so 


BOSTON      COMMON.  487 

provoking?  "  What  can  I  do,"  thought  I,  "  to  arrest  his  at 
tention?  0,1  know!" 

I  turned  about  quickly,  and  upset  two  or  three  dozen 
sheets  of  written  paper,  which  he  had  arranged  very  nicely 
together. 

"Helen,  you  little  mischief!  "  said  he,  looking  up. 

I  stood  calmly  gazing  at  the  disaster.  "  It  is  not  pretty 
for  ministers  to  call  names,  Ernest,"  said  I. 

He  laughed.  "  Are  n't  you  going  to  pick  up  those  papers, 
and  sort  them  together  as  they  were  before,  Helen?  " 

"  No,  certainly  not,  without  your  assistance." 

"  I  i  I  should  look  well  lowering  my  dignity  by  stooping 
to  the  floor  to  assist  you  in  picking  up  papers !  No,  no,  ma 
chere;  you  were  just  made  for  that  purpose — little,  light, 
and  active  ;  the  very  one  to  do  nice  little  jobs,  like  these." 

"  I  am  not  going  to  do  nice  little  jobs,  however,  without  pay, 
Master  Ernest ;  so,  if  you  do  not  come  down  pretty  liberally, 
I  shall  give  you  warning." 

"  Indeed !  Well,  then,  how  shall  I  pay  you  ?  —  in  kisses, 
or  bonbons  ?  " 

"  Neither,  cousin  Ernest.  How  can  you  imagine  me  so 
childish  ?  You  must  go  with  us  all,  to-morrow  night,  to  Mrs. 
Everett's  party.  'T  is  to  be  a  very  grand  affair,  and  is  Kath- 
erine's  last  night,  but  one,  with  us,  you  know." 

He  considered  a  moment,  nibbled  the  top  of  his  pen,  and 
then  resumed  his  writing.  How  very  provoking ! 

"Ernest,  I  say,  cousin  Ernest  —  I'll  upset  two  inkstands 
all  over  your  sermons,  if  you  do  not  answer  me.  Will  you  go? 
Say  yes  or  no,"  I  continued,  putting  my  hand  upon  the  ink 
stands  very  threateningly.  "  Say  yes  or  no." 


488  BOSTON    COMMON. 

"  Yes." 

"No,  you  don't  really  mean  it,  Ernest,  do  you?" 
"  Yes." 

"Well,  then,  you  are  a  nice,  great  darling;  -and  I  will  set 
to  rights  everything  I  have  disturbed,  and  then  leave  you." 


CHAPTER    L. 

"  Come  to  the  banquet  all, 
And  revel  out  the  night." 

LEE'S  ALEXANDER. 

"  Mourn  I  may  that  from  her  features 

All  the  angel-light  is  gone  ; 
But  I  chide  not.     Human  creatures 

Are  not  angels.     She  was  none. 
Women  have  so  many  natures  ! 
I  think  she  loved  me  well,  with  one." 

OWEN  MEREDITH. 

THE  evening  of  the  party  arrived,  and  we  dressed  early,  as 
Kate  wished  to  be  there  among  the  first.  I  was  ready  before 
her,  and  descended  to  the  drawing-room.  Ernest  was  there, 
and  alone.  He  smiled,  as  I  entered,  and,  taking  my  hand, 
led  me  to  the  mirror. 

"Helen,  dear,"  he  said,  "you  are  looking  extremely  well, 
to-night.  See  how  a  few  months  of  quiet  rest  and  happiness 
have  changed  your  whole  appearance !  Your  eyes  beam  with 
light  and  joy,  your  cheek  is  rosy  with  health,  and  a  smile  of 
happiness  is  playing  around  your  mouth.  You  are  very  much 
changed,  my  little  Nellie,  —  you  are  really  pretty." 

I  looked  in  the  mirror  with  Ernest,  and  was  again  much 
struck  with  the  strong  resemblance  we  bore  to  each  other.  I 
glanced  at  him  affectionately. 


490  BOSTON     COMMON. 

"  We  should  have  had  the  same  mother,  dear  Ernest,"  said 
I.  "  We  are  wonderfully  alike.  Do  you  not  think  so  ?  " 

"  I  do,  Helen,  — have  ever  thought  so.  We  will  continue 
to  resemble  each  other,  not  only  in  features,  but  -in  our 
virtues." 

When  we  arrived  at  Mrs.  Everett's,  only  a  few  were  there. 
They  soon  began  to  pour  in,  however ;  and,  in  a  short  time, 
her  large  and  elegant  parlors  were  filled  with  the  elite  of  the 
city.  Among  the  guests  I  recognized  several  old  friends,  and 
once  more  renewed  my  acquaintance  with  them. 

I  was  sitting  upon  a  sofa,  conversing  with  my  cousin  Mabel, 
when  Mrs.  John  Smith  was  announced.  I  cast  my  eyes  in 
voluntarily  towards  the  door,  and,  sure  enough,  there  stood 
Letitia !  She  was  dressed  in  a  rich  garnet-velvet  robe,  and 
her  diamonds  and  feathers  made  the  greatest  display  in  the 
room.  I  glanced  at  my  simple  attire;  then  at  Mabel's,  and 
even  at  Katherine's,  the  queen  of  the  evening.  We  were  all 
dressed  alike,  in  plain  white  satin,  with  natural  flowers. 

"  Can  it  be  possible,"  thought  I,  "  that  that  fashionably- 
dressed  lady  is  the  poor,  widowed  Letitia  Roscoe,  who  so  im 
ploringly  sought  my  protection,  a  few  years  since  ?  But  so 
goes  the  world." 

Letitia  was  much  larger  than  when  she  parted  from  me. 
She  had  grown  quite  robust,  and  looked  and  acted  the  lady  of 
consequence  to  perfection. 

In  a  few  moments  she  had  espied  me,  and  was  looking  very 
pale. 

"  Let 's  go  into  the  refreshment-room,"  whispered  my  cousin, 
"  and  be  away  from  her,  or  she  may  try  to  renew  her  acquaint 
ance  with  you.  I  am  very  desirous  of  avoiding  what  must 
be  to  us  all  an  extremely  disagreeable'  rencounter." 


BOSTON     COMMON.  491 

We  seated  ourselves  at  one  of  the  tables,  and  while  here 
were  surprised  to  hear  the  following  conversation,  which 
took  place  between  a  couple  of  persons  who  had  entered, 
unobserved  by  us,  and  stood  within  the  curtains  of  the  win 
dow. 

"And  so,"  said  the  voice  of  Mrs.  John  Smith  to  her  com 
panion,  "  Robert  Everett  is  really  engaged  to  that  rustic 
beauty,  Miss  Merton,  is  he  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  learned  it  from  the  very  best  authority.  She  has 
been  visiting  all  winter  at  Mr.  Richmond's,  and  they  say  that 
the  match  was  begun  and  consummated  there.  Our  new 
minister  seems  to  be  the  raging  star  just  now,  and  can  per 
form  wonders,  I  suppose." 

"  He  is  a  great,  solemn-looking  individual.  I  do  not  think 
him  such  a  divinity,  do  you  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Richmond  stands  very  high  in  this  city,  Mrs.  Smith, 
—  is  in  the  best  society  here,  and  much  beloved  by  his  people. 
All  the  girls  are  dying  after  him  ;  but  he  is  going  to  marry 
that  cousin  of  his,  Mrs.  Hastings." 

"  Indeed !  you  quite  surprise  me.  But  are  you  very  sure 
of  that  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  at  least,  everybody  says  so.  She  has  been  married, 
but  her  husband  is  either  dead  or  divorced  from  her,  and  she 
and  the  minister  are  to  be  united.  They  say  it  will  be  a  great 
time  when  they  are  married ;  for  years  ago,  when  Mrs.  Has 
tings  was  a  girl,  they  were  engaged." 

"  0,  I  do  not  believe  he  will  ever  marry  her,"  said  Mrs. 
Smith,  amiably.  "  Indeed,  I  know  he  won't,"  she  added, 
dropping  her  voice  to  a  whisper,  and  speaking  some  words  I 
sould  not  understand. 


492  BOSTON     COMMON. 

"  You  don't  say  so  !  "  rejoined  her  auditor.  "  0,  well,  — 
Ernest  Richmond  is  not  like  any  other  man.  He  is  very  wilful 
and  eccentric,  and  will  marry  her  all  the  quicker,  now  that 
she  has  been  unfortunate." 

"  Well,  perhaps  it  may  be  as  you  say,"  rejoined  Mrs. 
Smith.  "  I  used  to  be  somewhat  acquainted  with  Helen 
Hastings.  I  think  I  will  go  and  speak  to  herj  for,  if  she  is 
to  be  our  new  minister's  wife,  I  shall  have  to  play  the  amiable 
to  her,  I  suppose." 

Mabel  and  I  looked  at  each  other  and  laughed  heartily,  as 
the  great  lady  and  her  informant  swept  from  the  room.  We 
sought  the  parlor,  and  found  Ernest  standing  among  a  circle 
of  the  talented  of  the  city.  They  were  all  listening  atten 
tively  to  the  words  of  wisdom  that  were  flowing  from  his  elo 
quent  tongue.  We  joined  the  group,  and  were  soon  as  deeply 
interested  as  the  others. 

Suddenly  I  felt  my  hand  grasped,  and  the  voice  of  Ernest 
whispered  in  my  ear, 

"  Helen,  Mrs.  John  Smith  is  coming  towards  you ;  are 
you  prepared  to  meet  her  ?  " 

"  What  shall  I  say  to  her,  Ernest  ?  " 

"  What  you  please,  my  dear.  Use  your  own  discretion 
about  it." 

Just  then  Mrs.  Smith  came  sailing  up  to  me. 

"  Why,  my  dearest  Mrs.  Hastings,"  said  she,  "  how  very 
delighted  I  am  to  see  you  !  Are  you  well  ?  " 

I  looked  her  full  in  the  face  one  moment,  as  if  to  search 
her  heart.  She  evidently  read  what  was  passing  in  mine, 
and  her  face  was  instantly  covered  with  blushes. 

"  I  am  very  well,"  I  replied,  "  and  trust  you  are  also." 


BOSTON     COMMON.  493 

She  recovered  somewhat  from  her  confusion,  and  endeavored 
to  appear  calm.  "  I  did  not  know  of  your  arrival,  dear 
Helen,"  said  she.  "  How  long  have  you  been  in  the  city, 
pray?" 

"  Nearly  a  year,"  I  replied. 

"  A  year  !  and  I  not  know  of  it  ?  Naughty  girl,  why  did 
you  not  inform  me  of  your  existence  before  ?  " 

"  I  did,"  I  answered,  still  gazing  her  full  in  the  face.  She 
dropped  her  eyes  upon  the  carpet,  and  said  : 

"  I  never  received  one  word  of  intelligence  from  you,  Helen, 
and  did  not  know  of  your  being  in  the  city  until  I  saw  your 
familiar  face  here  this  evening." 

I  looked  at  her  quickly,  and  this  time  there  was  sternness 
in  my  voice,  as  I  replied : 

"  We  will  suspend  further  conversation,  Mrs.  Smith,  if  you 
please ;  but  the  little  note  which  you  threw  into  the  fire,  one 
cold  night  last  winter,  was  the  one  which  would  have  informed 
you  that  both  Willie  and  myself  were  in  the  city." 

Letitia  grew  pale  as  death,  and,  without  speaking  or  even 
looking  at  me  again,  turned  quickly  and  left  the  room.  A 
few  moments  afterwards,  I  heard  a  servant  announce  Mrs. 
John  Smith's  carriage.  A  rumor  immediately  spread  through 
the  rooms  that  Mrs.  Smith  had  been  suddenly  taken  ill  and 
gone  home. 

There  were  but  few  in  those  crowded  rooms  who  understood 
the  real  cause  of  her  sudden  exit ;  but  those  few  made  no 
comments,  and  the  party  went  on  as  gayly  as  before. 

At  eleven  o'clock  the  company  dispersed,  and  we  returned 
once  more  to  our  quiet  home.  Katie  left  us  the  next  day, 
and  for  a  long  time  we  were  quite  inconsolable  for  her  de- 
42 


BOSTON     COMMON. 


parture.  We  comforted  ourselves,  however,  by  thinking  that 
she  would  soon  be  back  again  to  live  always  with  us ;  and, 
resuming  our  former  occupations,  time  went  with  us  as  merrily 
as  ever. 


CHAPTER    LI. 

"  Dissembled  quiet  sits  upon  my  mind  ; 
My  sorrows  to  my  eyes  no  passage  find, 
But  sink  within.''  . 

ONE  evening,  about  the  last  of  April,  Ernest  was  called  to 
visit  a  sick  person.  "  I  may  be  gone  later  than  usual,  so  do 
not  sit  up  for  me,  Nellie,"  said  he. 

"  O,  I  would  rather,  if  you  please,  Ernest,"  I  answered. 
"  You  will  be  cold  and  hungry  when  you  return,  and  I  will 
be  up  to  make  tea  for  you." 

He  departed,  and  I  found  an  interesting  book  with  which 
to  beguile  the  hours  until  his  return.  Edward  and  Mabel 
had  gone  out,  Willie  was  asleep,  and  I  was  quite  alone  in  the 
drawing-room. 

I  sat  quietly  reading  until  the  lovers  came  in.  They  were 
in  high  spirits,  and  recounted  some  laughable  adventure 
which  they  had  just  witnessed.  At  length  Edward  arose, 
and,  bidding  us  good-night,  returned  home.  Soon  after, 
Mabel,  complaining  of  fatigue,  retired  to  her  chamber,  while 
I  sat  still  reading. 

When  the  clock  struck  eleven,  I  arose  quickly  and  opened 
the  window  to  look  for  Ernest.  He  was  nowhere  in  sight ; 
and,  wondering  where  he  could  be  so  late,  I  stole  into  the 


496  BOSTON     COMMON. 

sitting-room,  where  we  always  kept  a  fire,  and  began  to  pre 
pare  his  supper. 

I  made  some  tea,  toasted  a  few  slices  of  bread,  and,  fixing 
it  exactly  as  I  knew  he  liked  it,  placed  it  in  a  covered  dish 
by  the  fire  to  keep  warm,  I  then  put  two  cups  and  plates 
upon  the  little  table ;  for  Ernest  always  liked  to  have  me  sit 
with  him.  I  placed  the  sugar-bowl  and  milk-pitcher  upon  the 
table  likewise ;  and,  when  all  was  ready,  seated  myself  upon 
a  little  cricket  to  wait  for  Ernest. 

I  suppose  I  must  have  fallen  asleep ;  for  when  I  awoke 
Ernest  had  entered,  and  was  gazing  sadly  upon  me.  I 
started,  and,  arising,  took  his  hand  in  mine.  It  was  cold  as 
ice. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  have  come,  dear  coz !  "  said  I.  "  I  was 
afraid  you  had  met  with  some  disagreeable  adventure ;  and, 
indeed,  you  have  remained  out  too  long,  for  your  hand  is 
quite  cold.  Let  me  take  off  your  hat  and  cloak.  Now,  sit 
down  in  this  easy-chair,  and  warm  your  feet.  Don't  that  fire 
look  nice  ?  " 

Ernest  submitted  to  my  attentions  very  quietly,  and 
watched  me  as  I  uncovered  the  toast  and  poured  out  the  tea. 

"  Now,  cousin  mine,"  said  I,  "  just  wheel  that  chair  around, 
and  see  if  I  do  not  make  the  best  toast  in  the  world.  I 
want  you  to  eat  it  all ;  for  I  am  not  in  the  least  hungry,  and 
shall  not  help  you  to-night." 

I  handed  Ernest  a  cup  of  tea,  and,  as  I  did  so,  glanced  a 
second  at  his  face.  It  was  pale  as  death.  I  set  down  the 
cup,  and  arose. 

"  Why,  Ernest,"  said  I,  in  a  trembling  voice,  "  what  has 
come  over  you  ?  —  you  look  so  pale,  so  unhappy !  " 


BOSTON      COMMON.  497 

"  Do  I  ?  "  said  he,  half-smiling.  "  Well,  I  am  a  little  sick 
to-night,  and  cannot  eat  your  nice  toast,  cousin  Nell.  You 
will  have  to  give  it,  in  all  its  goodness,  to  the  cat !  " 

"  Give  iny  toast  to  the  cat  ?  I  '11  not  do  it,  even  to  please 
you,  Ernest.  But  are  you  really  ill  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  well,  surely  ;  but  it  will  soon  pass  off.  Yes,  it 
must  pass  off,  or  I  shall  die,"  he  continued.  "  Give  me  my 
night-lamp,  and  good-by,  my  dear  Nellie,  —  that  is,  good-night, 
I  mean.  Go  right  away  to  bed,  Nellie,  and,  do  you  hear,  go 
to  sleep.  Do  not  keep  awake  a  moment." 

Ernest  took  the  lamp  and  left  the  sitting-room,  while  I 
remained  behind  a  few  moments  to  set  all  to  rights. 

"  How  strangely  Ernest  looked  and  spoke  to-night !  " 
thought  I.  "  I  wonder  what  could  have  been  the  matter  with 
him  ?  Perhaps  he  has  just  witnessed  a  scene  of  suffering,  or  a 
death-bed,  and  it  has  affected  him  almost  to  illness.  But 
what  made  him  look  at  me  so  sadly,  and  speak  so  incoherently, 
as  if  he  scarcely  knew  what  he  said?  Poor  Ernest !  he  must 
tell  me  all  about  it,  to-morrow." 

I  took  the  lamp,  and  sought  my  chamber.  Little  Willie 
was  sleeping  so  calmly,  and  looking  so  happy,  that  it  soothed 
my  somewhat  troubled  thoughts  to  look  upon  him.  A  strange 
and  undefinable  feeling  that  all  was  not  right  had  taken  pos 
session  of  me  ;  but  I  banished  it,  and,  as  it  was  now  quite  late, 
went  to  sleep. 

Ernest  looked  so  pale,  and  ate  so  little  breakfast,  the  next 
morning,  that  both  Mabel  and  myself  were  quite  alarmed. 
We  said  nothing  to  him,  however,  thinking  that  if  it  were 
necessary  for  us  to  know  the  cause  of  his  depression  he  would 
tell  us. 

42* 


498  BOSTON     COMMON. 

As  soon  as  breakfast  was  over  he  arose,  and,  without  a  word, 
went  into  his  study,  and  shut  the  door.  I  sat  down  on  a  low 
stool,  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  What  is  the  mutter  between  you  and  Ernest  ? "  said 
Mabel ;  "  you  have  not  offended  him,  have  you,  Nellie  ?  " 

"  0,  I  know  not !  "  sobbed  I.  "  Something  dreadful  must 
have  happened.  He  has  not  spoken  to  me  to-day,  or  noticed 
Willie  in  the  least." 

Mabel  tried  to  comfort  me ;  but  I  felt  a  gloom  upon  my 
spirits,  which  all  her  kind  words  could  not  erase.  I  busied 
myself  as  usual ;  but  nothing  went  right.  In  the  absence  of 
Ernest's  smile  I  had  lost  my  motive  for  exertion,  and  every 
thing  had  acquired  a  dull,  sluggish  motion. 

When  dinner  was  ready,  Ernest  sent  word  that  we  must  eat 
without  him,  for  he  should  not  dine  with  us  that  day.  Mabel 
and  I  looked  inquiringly  at  each  other,  but  said  nothing,  and 
our  dinner  was  scarcely  tasted. 

It  was  a  rainy  afternoon,  and  as  I  sat  gazing  from  the  win 
dow,  I  felt  a  little  of  the  old  apathy  which  I  had  experienced 
some  five  months  ago  creeping  over  me.  An  idea  that  some 
thing  was  hanging  over  us,  that  something  was  about  to  mar 
our  peace,  had  fastened  itself  upon  my  mind,  and  I  found  it 
impossible  to  shake  it  off. 

The  afternoon  passed  in  gloomy  meditations,  and  in  watching 
the  big  drops  of  rain,  as  they  fell  in  abundance  upon  the  earth. 

Ernest  appeared  at  the  tea-table,  and  seemed  much  calmer 
than  in  the  morning.  The  paleness  had  somewhat  abated, 
and  his  appetite  had  returned  in  a  measure.  He  said  but 
little,  however,  and  when  he  did  speak  his  voice  seemed  to 
lack  heart. 


BOSTON     COMMON.  499 

After  tea  he  put  on  his  coat  and  hat,  and  said,  turning 
to  me  : 

"  I  am  going  out  a  while ;  and,  Helen,  you  need  not  sit  up 
for  me  to-night.  I  shull  not  return  until  quite  late,  and  I 
do  not  wish  to  deprive  you  of  your  natural  rest,  child." 

"  O,  I  would  much  rather  sit  up  !  "  said  I.  "  It  would  be 
far  preferable  to  going  to  bed  and  leaving  you  to  come  homo 
without  having  your  tea."  a"  i 

"  I  shall  not  require  any  tea  to-night ;  and,  Nellie,  be  sure 
you  go  to  bed.  Mind  I  do  not  find  you  sitting  up  when  I 
return." 

He  departed ;  and,  after  passing  a  dreary  evening,  trying 
in  vain  to  conjecture  the  cause  of  Ernest's  depression,  Mabel 
and  myself  retired,  leaving  a  servant  to  attend  to  Ernest  when 
he  returned. 

Two  or  three  days  passed  in  this  manner.  Ernest  said  but 
little,  ate  less,  and  shut  himself  closely  in  his  study  nearly  all 
day.  Every  evening,  after  leaving  a  message  for  Mabel  and 
myself  not  to  sit  up  for  him,  he  went  out ;  and  every  morn 
ing,  after  these  nocturnal  visits,  he  would  seem  more  and  more 
depressed. 

A  deep  gloom  hung  over  our  once  happy  household.  Mabel 
pursued  her  duties  in  silence,  while  I  spent  more  than  half  my 
time  in  meditation  and  weeping. 

At  length,  from  his  continued  coldness,  I  began  to  think  that 
I  had  in  some  way  displeased  him,  and  that  he  had  taken  this 
method  of  punishing  me.  But  what  could  it  be  ?  I  was  con 
scious  of  no  wrong.  I  had  said  nothing  ;  had  attended  to  all 
my  duties  with  unwearied  promptitude ;  had  watched  every 
word  to  see  that  it  was  right ;  had  studied  to  please  him  in 


500  BOSTON     COMMON. 

every  way.  Then  the  thought  struck  me :  "Perhaps  my  ward 
robe  is  not  in  order.  I  may  not  have  appeared  quite  so  nice 
lately  as  Ernest  could  wish.  —  But  no ;  everything  is  right  as 
far  as  that  is  concerned,  and  even  if  it  were  not,  a  trifling 
neglect  in  this  respect  would  not  cause  Ernest  to  look  pale,  and 
lose%his  appetite." 

Saturday  morning  arrived,  and  I  knew  that,  as  Ernest  was 
more  engaged  on  this  day  than  any  other,  he  would  probably 
require  my  assistance.  The  morning  passed,  however,  without 
my  being  summoned,  as  usual ;  and,  fearing  that  Ernest  might 
really  need  me,  and  yet,  in  his  absence  of  mind,  forget  to  call 
me,  I  determined  to  seek  him  myself,  and  ascertain,  if  possi 
ble,  what  was  the  cause  of  his-  estrangement. 

I  took  my  way  to  the  study,  but  when  opposite  the  door 
dared  not  venture  in.  I  stood  there  a  few  moments,  and,  not 
hearing  any  noise,  knocked  lightly.  No  answer.  A  minute  or 
two  passed,  and  the  knock  was  repeated. 

"  Come  in,"  said  the  voice  of  Ernest ;  and,  tremblingly,  I 
opened  the  door,  and  stood  upon  the  threshold.  Ernest  raised 
his  eyes  to  me. 

"  Well,  Helen,"  said  he,  "  what  do  you  want  ?  " 

"  <  Well,  Helen,  what  do  you  want  ? '  Why,  what  a  cold 
salutation  !  Ernest,  you  know  that  I  always  copy  your  ser 
mons,  Saturdays  ;  and  I  have  come  to  write  now,  if  you  wish." 

"  I  am  obliged  to  you,  Helen,  but  shall  not  require  your 
services  to-day.  I  have  been  quite  diligent  myself,  this  week." 

He  turned  towards  the  table,  and,  without  another  word  or 
look,  recommenced  his  writing.  I  retreated,  and  closed  the  door ; 
but  his  coldness  had  smote  upon  my  heart,  and  made  it  sick.  I 
sought  my  room,  and  wept  for  hours  over  this  strange  conduct. 


BOSTON     COMMON.  501 

Supper-time  came ;  but  I  determined  not  to  go  down,  for 
my  eyes  would  but  betray  my  weeping  to  Ernest,  and  I  wished 
to  spare  him  even  this  annoyance. 

Mabel  came  up  to  my  room.  "  Why,  Nellie,"  said  she, 
"  bathed  in  tears  !  Are  you  ill  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Mabel ;  I  am  sick  —  sick  at  heart." 

"  Are  n't  you  coming  down  to  tea  ?  " 

"  Has  Ernest  asked  for  me  ?  " 

"  No  ;  he  said  not  a  word,  but,  as  soon  as  supper  was  over, 
went  immediately  out." 

"  Mabel,  Ernest's  strange  manner  is  killing  me.  I  cannot 
live,  and  suffer  another  week  as  I  have 'this.  What  can  have 
occurred  to  make  him  forget  my  presence  at  the  tea-table  ?  " 

"  I  know  not,  indeed  ;  but  time  will  tell,  I  hope.  Something 
serious  must  have  taken  place  ;  but  I  know  Ernest's  great  and 
noble  nature  too  well  to  think  he  will  keep  us  long  in  suspense. 
We  shall  soon  know  all." 

The  -Sabbath  came,  and  we  all  went,  as  usual,  to  church. 
For  the  first  time  I  perceived  that  there  was  a  something  lack 
ing  in  Ernest's  sermon,  —  something  of  the  spirit  that  always 
pervaded  his  other  discourses,  something  of  the  fervor.  It  had 
not  the  usual  depth  and  pointedness  ;  and,  full  of  a  new  grief 
concerning  the  state  of  Ernest's  mind,  I  applied  to  Mabel. 

"  Ernest  is  not  losing  his  intellectual  powers,  is  he,  Mabel  ? 
He  has  studied  so  hard,  I  fear  he  will  be  insane." 

"  No,  indeed  ;  that  cannot  be  !  " 

"  But  did  you  not  notice  to-day  that  his  sermon  was  not  so 
deep  and  impressive  as  usual  ?  " 

"  I  did  not,  indeed.  It  must  have  been  imagination.  I  think 
his  sermons  always  beautiful,  always  deep,  and  to  the  purpose." 


502  BOSTON     COMMON. 

Monday,  Tuesday,  Wednesday,  passed  in  the  same  manner. 
Ernest  sat  alone  all  day  in  his  study,  and,  after  taking  a 
slight  supper,  went  out,  and  would  be  gone  for  hours.  He 
never  spoke  to  Mabel  and  myself,  seldom  looked  at  us ;  and 
even  the  playfulness  of  his  pet  Willie  seemed  painfully  to 
affect  him. 

On  Thursday  afternoon,  I  was  very  much  surprised  and 
delighted  by  the  arrival  of  my  father,  mother,  and  sister  Con 
stance.  This  event  made  me  very  happy  ;  for  anything  was 
welcome  now,  especially  a  visit  from  my  beloved  parents, 
whom  I  had  not  seen  for  nearly  a  year. 

My  father  and  mother  both  seemed  so  happy,  that  I  en 
deavored  to  shake  off  a  little  of  the  gloom  that  enshrouded 
my  own  heart,  and  strove  to  appear  cheerful.  My  mother 
was  quite  delighted  with  my  appearance. 

"  You  are  looking  finely,  Helen,"  said  she.  "  You  have 
grown  round  and  plump,  and  your  eyes  beam  so  brightly  that 
I  declare  it  is  quite  a  pleasure  to  see  you.  But  where  is 
Ernest?  I  have  not  seen  him  in  many  years,  and  I  am  very 
impatient  to  behold  my  new  son-in-law,  and  your  husband, 
that  is  to  be,  Nellie.  Ah !  how  you  blush  !  but  we  know  all 
about  it.  Do  not  be  afraid  to  speak  your  mind  before  us. 
Tell  us  of  Ernest ;  we  shall  never  weary  of  the  subject !  " 

"  Don't,  dear  mother,  I  pray  you,  don't  speak  of  Ernest." 

"  Why,  what  is  the  matter  now  ?  0,1  know,  and  no  won 
der,  poor  thing!  But  I  have  got  some  delightful  news  for 
you  both.  I  am  not  going  to  tell  you,  however,  until  I  see 
you  both  together ;  for  I  long  to  witness  your  pleasure." 

By  and  by  Ernest  came  in  from  a  walk.  Mabel  met  him 
at  the  door,  and  informed  him  of  the  new  arrival.  He  en- 


BOSTON      COMMON.  508 

tered,  and  greeted  my  parents  so  warmly,  so  affectionately, 
that  I  felt  the  hope  once  more  springing  up  in  my  heart  that 
all  would  yet  be  well. 

After  tea,  as  we  were  all  sitting  together,  my  mother  told 
Ernest  that  she  had  some  pleasant  news  for  us,  and  that,  as 
we  were  now  together,  she  would  tell  us  of  it. 

"  I  should  be  most  happy  to  hear  it,  aunt,  if  you  please," 
said  Ernest. 

"Well,  then,"  said  she,  "  Helen  is  to  be  legally  separated 
from  her  husband.  The  witnesses  are  obtained,  the  business 
concluded,  and  everything  arranged.  My  daughter  will,  with 
out  the  least  -shadow  of  doubt,  be  free  in  about  a  month ;  and 
then  you  and  she,  Ernest,  can  fulfil  what  has  long  been  the 
wish  of  my  heart  —  you  can  marry." 

I  stole  a  glance  at  Ernest,  to  ascertain  what  effect  this 
news  had  upon  him.  He  was  actually  livid  with,  paleness ; 
and  such  an  expression  of  woe  rested  upon  his  features  that  I 
was  half  frightened  to  death,  and  begged  -my  mother  to  say 
no  more  about  it,  for  that  the  subject  was  painful  to  us  both. 

"  No  doubt,  no  doubt,"  she  answered  ;  "  but,  then,  Nellie, 
your  troubles  are  nearly  over,  and  the  remembrance  of  them 
will  soon  be  a  source  of  happiness  rather  than  pain." 

But  little  more  was  said,  and  my  parents,  being  fatigued 
with  their  long  journey,  retired  early.  Ernest  and  myself 
were  thus  left  alone ;  for  Mabel  conducted  them  to  their 
chamber.  As  soon  as  he  discovered  this,  he  arose,  and  paced 
the  room  in  the  greatest  agitation  for  a  few  moments.  Recol 
lecting  himself,  however,  he  suddenly  grew  quite  calm ;  and, 
saying  "  Good-night,  Helen,"  and  taking  a  lamp,  he  left  the 
drawing-room,  and  sought  his  own  study. 


CHAPTER    LII. 

"  Forgive  me,  if  I  cannot  better  answer  than  weeping." 

ROWK. 

"  His  bold,  fair  front,  and  eye  sublime, 
Declared  absolute  rule."  MILTON. 

I  SAT  a  few  moments  almost  stupefied  with  grief,  and  then, 
rising,  paced  the  floor  with  hasty  and  uneven  steps. 

"  This  has  gone  on  long  enough  !  "  I  exclaimed.  "  I  must 
and  will  have  an  explanation  to-night,  if  it  kills  me.  I  will, 
yes,  I  will  seek  Ernest,  and  insist  upon  his  telling  me  what 
terrible  evil  is  hanging  over  our  heads.  There  may  yet  be  a 
means  of  averting  it." 

I  moved  softly  towards  the  door,  and,  looking  in,  beheld 
Ernest  in  the  act  of  prayer.  His  back  was  turned,  and  I 
glided  in,  and,  closing  the  door,  walked  towards  him,  and 
waited  for  him  to  notice  me. 

In  a  few  moments  Ernest  arose,  and,  with  a  deep  sigh, 
seated  himself  in  a  chair.  His  eye  now  fell  upon  me,  for  the 
first  time  since  my  entrance. 

"  Helen  here  !  "  exclaimed  he. 

"  Yes,  Ernest,"  I  answered,  "  I  am  here  ;  and  now,  on  my 
knees,  I  beseech,  I  implore  you,  to  keep  me  no  longer  in  this 
agony  of  suspense.  I  entreat  you  to  tell  me  how  I  have 


BOSTON     COMMON.  505 

offended  you,  what  I  have  done  to  incur  your  displeasure, 
and  I  will  repair  it,  even  with  the  sacrifice  of  life.  0,  Ernest, 
dear  Ernest,  pity  me,  and  refuse  me  not !  " 

He  stooped,  and,  raising  me  tenderly  in  his  arms,  seated 
me  in  a  chair. 

"  Nellie,  my  poor  child,"  said  he,  "  you  have  never,  by 
word  or  deed,  done  aught  to  offend  me.  You  need  not  fear." 

"  0,  Ernest !  you  have  indeed  taken  a  weight  from  my 
heart.  And  now  please  tell  me  what  can  have  occurred  to 
make  you  so  gloomy  —  so  utterly  miserable." 

He  made  no  reply.  I  continued.  "  Ernest,  you  have 
grown  weary  of  my  affection  —  of  my  deep  devotion.  Ernest, 
you  are  changed;  you  no  longer  love  me."  . 

He  started,  and  gazed  eagerly  in  my  face,  "  Helen,"  said 
he,  "  you  wrong  me.  Heaven  is  my  witness  that,  since  the 
first  time  I  saw  you,  njy  love  has  never  known  diminution 
or  change,  but  has  grown  stronger  and  stronger  each  day." 

"  Then  you  do  still  love  me,  Ernest?  " 

"  Such  a  love  as  mine,  Nellie,  knows  no  change  — dreams 
not  of  such  a  thing.  It  will  last  as  long  as  my  life.  But, 
Nellie,  although  I  would  die  to  save  you  an  hour's  grief,  yet 
you  must  leave  me." 

"  Leave  you,  Ernest,  my  own  darling  Ernest?     Never!  " 

"  Helen,  you  must  again  go  forth  into  the  world ;  must 
again  brave  its  dangers ;  must  —  0,  my  God,  that  I  should 
live  to  say  it !  —  must  again  spend  days,  perhaps  years,  far 
from  the  heart  that  you  leave  withering  behind;  must  en 
counter  scorn,  grief,  and  poverty,  far  from  the  one  who  would 
barter  every  hope  of  happiness  here  to-  be  allowed  to  protect 
you ;  must  never  speak,  or  even  think  of  me,  again." 
43 


506  BOSTON     COMMON. 

"  0,  Ernest,  alas  !  your  fearful  words  are  killing  me !  I 
can  never  leave  you,  whatever  may  have  occurred.  I  will 
brave  danger,  poverty,  suffering,  the  world's  scorn,  even 
crime  itself,  so  that  I  may  never  leave  you,  my  own  dear 
Ernest ! " 

"  But,  Helen,  no  danger  lurks  around  my  path ;  poverty 
dares  not  enter  my  home ;  scorn  never  directs  its  envenomed 
shaft  towards  me ;  crime  never  stained  this  heart ;  and  yet, 
Helen,  you  must  leave  me." 

"  Ernest,  I  cannot." 

"  Helen,  you  must." 

"  I  will  not." 

"  Helen,  you  shall." 

I  sank  at  his  fefet.  "  In  Heaven's  name,  Ernest,"  said  I, 
"  tell  me  what  you  mean  !  Are  you  insane,  or  only  ill  ?  or  do 
you  wish  to  be  forever  alone  ?  Because,  if  you  have  lost  the 
fine,  glorious  intellect  which  God  gave  you,  I  will  watch  over 
you  so  tenderly,  talk  with  you  so  eloquently,  and  be  with  you 
BO  constantly,  that  you  will  soon  be  restored ;  your  powers 
of  mind  will  come  back,  at  my  bidding,  in  all  their  former 
glory *  and  if  they  do  not,  dear  Ernest,  you  shall  have  mine. 
I  will  breathe  all  my  mind  and  soul  into  yours,  and  be  con 
tent  to  sit  in  midnight  darkness,  so  that  you  are  restored  and 
I  may  not  leave  you.  Are  you  ill  ?  —  I  will  watch  over  you 
so  carefully,  sing  to  you  so  softly,  and  guard  you  so  affec 
tionately,  that  you  will  soon  feel  sweet  health  bounding  once 
more  through  your  veins.  Or  do  you  wish  to  be  alone  ?  — 
Then,  dear  Ernest,  let  me  but  breathe  the  same  air  with  you ; 
let  me  live  where  I  can  minister  to  your  comforts ;  let  me 
watch  for  your  coming  footsteps  ;  let  me  hear  the  sound  of 


BOSTON    COMMON.  507 

that  voice ;  let  me  hover  around  you  with  every  little  affec 
tion  :  and  I  will  be  content  to  be  invisible,  —  will  never  let 
you  behold  my  face.  I  will  arrange  your  study ;  keep  the 
books  in  perfect  order ;  copy  your  sermons  when  you  are 
away ;  sing  to  you  when  you  are  at  home,  and  yet  conceal 
myself  from  your  eyes;  will,  in  short,  be  and  do  everything 
you  wish,  save  this  one  thing  —  I  can  never,  never  leave 
you !  " 

Ernest  was  gazing  at  me  tenderly  while  I  spoke ;  and, 
when  I  had  concluded,  his  head  dropped  upon  his  breast,  and 
heavy  sighs  escaped  from  his  heart.  He  looked  me  earnestly 
in  the  face,  and  love  beamed  from  every  lineament  of  his 
own.  He  spoke,  and  my  heart  stood  still  to  catch  the  words. 

"  Helen,  no  words  can  express  the  deep  love  I  bear,  and 
ever  have  borne,  for  you ;  or  the  wild  joy  that  bounds  through 
this  heart,  as  it  listens  to  the  words  'of  tenderness  and  de 
votion  breathed  from  your  lips.  And  yet,  Helen,  it  is  my 
sincere  wish,  my  earnest  desire,  • —  nay,  more,  my  heartfelt 
prayer,  that  you  leave  me,  and  leave  me  at  once !  " 

I  arose,  and  wildly  paced  the  room.  "  Then  I  must  indeed 
go,"  I  exclaimed,  "  since  Ernest  desires  it,  since  he  prays  for 
it.  Yes,  I  must  leave  him ;  must  again  go  forth  into  the 
world,  moneyless  and  shelterless;  must  again  encounter  pov 
erty  and  grief;  must  again  live  without  love  and  sympathy ; 
must  die  alone. .  0,  Ernest !  dear  Ernest !  " 

I  went  up  to  him.  I  kissed  his  forehead  wildly ;  I  twined 
my  arms  around  him  in  frantic  grief;  I  nestled  close  in  his 
bosom,  and  played  with  the  bright  curls  that  lay  upon  his 
brow. 

"  O,  Ernest,"  I  sobbed,  "  say  no  more  to  me,  but  let  me  die 
here,  and  now ;  for  I  cannot  live  away  from  you ! " 


508  BOSTON     COMMON. 

Again  strong  emotion  shook  that  powerful  frame,  —  again 
did  hot,  burning  tears  roll  slowly  from  his  eyes,  and  again 
did  his  strong  will  struggle  with  his  grief  for  a  mastery.  In 
a  few  moments  he  had  conquered.  His  emotion  ceased ;  the 
tears  died  away,  and  his  heart  was  still,  save  a  dull,  irreg 
ular  beating. 

He  slowly  unclosed  iriy  clinging  arms;  he  separated  me 
from  his  heart,  and  arose.  I  fell  to  the  floor  in  despair.  I 
saw  that  Ernest  was  resolute,  —  that  a  little  of  the  old 
tyranny  had  come  back,  —  that  I  was  in  presence  of  a  strong, 
gigantic  spirit,  and  that,  as  on  similar  occasions,  I  must  yield. 
I  lay  still,  and  awaited  my  doom,  as  it  fell  from  that  stern 
man's  lips. 

"  Helen,  dearest,  I  love  you,  as  I  said  before,  truly  and 
devotedly.  I  would  sacrifice  my  life  to  spare  you  an  hour's 
anguish.  I  would  be  content  to  suffer  every  ill,  every  hard 
ship,  rather  than  part  from  you ;  —  but,  Helen,  there  is  a 
bound  even  to  my  wild  love.  I  can  give  you  up  for  duty's 
sake.  I  can  reject  all  your  affection,  and  bid  you  go  from 
my  presence,  if  it  be  God's  will ;  —  and,  Helen,  it  is !  He 
has  commanded  me  to  yield  you  up,  —  to  forego  every  hope 
of  anticipated  happiness,  —  to  wreck  your  heart  and  my  own 
with  grief:  and,  though  it  draws  the  life-blood  from  my  veins, 
though  it  kills  me,  and  you,  too,  my  Helen,  you  must  go,  an'd 
go  never  to  return,  —  unless  —  unless  — " 

I  looked  at  him  eagerly,  as  if  to  catch  one  word  of  hope. 
There  was  none  for  me,  however,  and  I  tearfully  awaited  the 
conclusion. 

"  That  can  hardly  be,"  he  muttered ;  "  and  God  grant  that 
I  may  root  so  vile,  so  selfish  a  wish  from  my  heart !  " 


BOSTON     COMMON.  509 

He  paced  the  room  to  and  fro,  as  if  in  deep  thought ;  then 
approaching  me,  he  raised  me  tenderly  from  the  floor,  and 
seated  me  in  a  chair. 

"Helen,"  said  he,  "your  husband  is  in  the  city  —  has  been 
here  for  more  than  a  month.  Rather  more  than  a  week  ago, 
I  was  sent  for  to  visit  a  sick  man.  I  entered  a  miserable  old 
house,  in  a  mean  part  of  the  city,  and,  on  a  rickety  bedstead, 
with  poverty  indelibly  stamped  upon  every  article,  I  beheld 
your  husband.  I  scarcely  recognized  him,  he  was  so  changed ; 
but  he  soon  convinced  me  of  his  identity. 

"He  told  me  a  long  tale  of  suffering  and  misery,  —  told 
me  that  his  intemperate  habits  had  ruined  his  health,  and 
that  he  feared  he  was  now  dying ;  but  that,  in  view  of  so 
great  and  awful  a  change,  he  had  truly  and  sincerely  repented 
of  his  errors :  that  nothing  could  now  tempt  him  to  touch  a 
drop  of  the  poison  that  had  so  ruined  him ;  that  he  would 
abandon  all  his  habits, —  swearing,  gambling,  infidelity,  &c., — 
and  never  think  or  dream  of  another,  save  his  own  wifo; 
that  you  were  innocent  and  pure;  that  you  had  sacrificed 
riches,  happiness,  almost  life,  for  him ;  and  that  all  he  now 
lived  or  hoped  for  was  that  wife's  forgiveness. 

" '  Now,'  continued  the  wretched  man,  '  I  am  groping  in 
spiritual  darkness,  —  I  am  seeking  for  light,  —  I  am  striving 
for  eternal  peace.  Will  you,  Mr.  Richmond,'  he  continued, 
'  be  my  adviser  ?  Will  you  come  here  every  night,  and  pray 
with  me,  and  talk  to  me  of  the  mercy  of  God  ?  Will  you 
sfcrive,  in  obedience  to  your  holy  calling,  to  bring  peace  and 
pardon  to  rny  weary,  sin-laden  heart?  0,  Mr.  Richmond, 
if  you  will  but  consent  to  do  this,  my  blessings  throughout 
43* 


510  BOSTON    COMMON. 

eternity  shall  be  yours !  In  pity,  in  mercy,  refuse  me  not 
this  precious  boon ! ' 

"  What  was  I  to  do,  Helen?  I  returned  to  my  home ;  but 
the  scene  I  had  witnessed  almost  paralyzed  my  senses.  I 
was  not  myself.  I  scarcely  knew  what  I  said  or  did  ;  but  I 
retired  to  my  room,  and  for  several  days  pondered  the  sub 
ject  deeply. 

"  If  I  struggle  with  and  for  this  man,  thought  I,  he  will, 
perhaps,  recover;  and,  in  the  enjoyment  of  health,  happiness, 
and  religion,  will  demand  his  wife.  He  would,  should  he  re 
pent  of  his  misdeeds  and  become  a  true  Christian,  have  an 
undoubted  right  to  her ;  and  thus,  by  my  devotion  to  him,  I 
shall  throw  away  the  solace  of  my  life,  my  hopes  of  earthly 
happiness,  and  Helen's,  also.  Must  I  make  this  great  sac 
rifice?  Shall  I  be  justified  in  refusing  to  restore  this  man  to 
his  wife  —  to  his  G.od  ? 

"Alas!  Helen,  what  was  my  conclusion?  It  was  this: 
tkat  my  happiness,  or  even  yours,  which  was  dearer  to  me 
than  my  own,  was  as  nothing,  compared  with  an  eternity  of 
bliss  to  Roland,  —  which  might  be  lost  to  him  if  I  refused  to 
perform  my  duty ;  that  my  allegiance  to  God  would  not  per 
mit  me  to  throw  away  this  soul ;  that  I  had  vowed  to  win  all 
the  souls  in  my  power  to  him,  and  that  my  sorrows  or 
pleasures  must  not  stand  in  the  way  of  his  glory. 

"To  know  and  understand  my  duty,  Helen,  was  to  decide 
in  favor  of  that  duty.  I  resolved  that  I  would  not  fail  to 
embrace  the  opportunity  here  presented ;  but  that  I  would, 
without  one  particle  of  selfishness,  devote  all  the  energies  of 
my  soul  to  this  man's  eternal  welfare. 

"  I  did  so.     Night  after  night  I  visited  him,  read  to  him, 


BOSTON     COMMON.  511 

prayed  with  him,  and  endeavored  to  show  him  the  light 
of  the  Gospel.  I  was  enabled,  by  prayer  and  constant 
watchfulness,  to  be  faithful.  Roland  Hastings  is  now  a 
Christian !  By  the  blessing  of  God,  he  has  now  repented, 
and  forsaken  his  evil  ways ;  and  is  as  sincere  and  earnest  a 
spirit  as  I  have  ever  met  with. 

"  The  deep  peace  which  religion  has  brought  to  his  mind 
has  caused  him  partially  to  recover;  and  he  novv  prays,  he 
entreats  for  you,  his  wife.  He  longs  for  your  presence  once 
more.  He  earnestly  desires  to  pour  into  your  heart  the  joys 
and  peace  which  fill  his  own.  He  wishes  to  beg  forgiveness 
for  past  offences ;  and  to  repay  your  sacrifices,  your  suffer 
ings,  and  your  heart-felt  petitions,  by  pouring  into  your  ear 
the  glorious  news  that  he  has  been  brought  home,  even  at 
the  eleventh  hour,  and  that  he  is  now  ready  to  spend  his  life, 
his  all,  in  the  service  of  God  ! 

"  Your  prayers,  my  Helen,  are  answered.  Years  ago,  you 
implored  God  to  take  away  riches,  honor,  happiness,  and  all, 
but  to  give  you  the  blessed  assurance  that  your  husband  was 
saved.  He,  in  his  infinite  mercy,  lent  an  ear  to  that  earnest, 
that  unselfish  petition,  and  granted  it.  But  he  has  demanded, 
in  return  for  the  boon,  a  great  sacrifice  of  you.  He  has 
caused  your  heart  to  glow  with  love  for  another ;  and  now  he 
takes  away  all  your  possessions,  he  leaves  you  in  poverty  and 
suffering,  and  even  commands  you  to  root  from  your  heart 
every  vestige  of  love  it  feels  for  that  other,  and  to  return  to 
that  husband  who  has  so  deeply  wronged  you,  —  to  forgive 
him,  —  to  watch  and  pray  over  him,  as  heretofore,  —  to  en 
courage  and  strengthen  this  newly-fledged  spirit,  and  to  never 
leave  it  until  sure  of  its  eternal  happiness. 


512  BOSTON      COMMON. 

"  This  seems  hard,  my  Helen,  but  it  is  right ;  and  although 
bitter  disappointment  and  suffering  is,  and  will  be,  yours,  yet 
the  cup  is  still  tempered  with  mercy.  Although  your  heart, 
your  vows,  and  your  allegiance,  are  another's,  yet  you  return 
no  more  to  the  intemperate,  the  gambler,  the  unfaithful,  but 
to  the  sincere  Christian,  —  to  the  tender  spirit,  whose  sins 
have  been  washed  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb,  and  whom  it  is 
your  duty  to  perfect,  if  possible,  in  the  new  and  glorious 
faith  he  has  chosen. 

"  Now,  my  Helen,  in  view  of  your  solemn  duty,  in  vievr 
of  God's  holy  will,  can  you  still  stretch  forth  your  hands  in 
helplessness,  and  entreat  to  be  spared  from  this  trial  ?  No, 
Helen,  let  me  see  that  noble  strength  of  mind  for  which  I 
always  gave  you  credit,  and,  above  all,  that  duty  which  you 
owe  to  God,  conquering  and  obliterating  every  selfish  emo 
tion.  Let  us  arise,  my  Helen,  and  be  as  alike  in  mind,  our 
sense  of  duty,  and  in  obedience  to  its  requirements,  as  we 
are  in  features.  Let  us  reflect  that,  if  we  give  up  all  our 
earthly  happiness,  every  blessing  here,  we  shall  only  have 
done  what  was  required  of  us,  —  we  shall  not  have  paid 
back  one  tithe  of  the  mighty  debt  we  owe  Him.  Let  us 
make  the  sacrifice,  although  it  prostrates,  kills  us ;  let  us 
walk  boldly  on,  and  fulfil  God's  will  to  the  utmost  of  our 
power. 

"  But  we  shall  not  die,  my  Helen  ;  we  shall  live,  and  may 
yet  be  united.  At  the  present,  however,  cast  all  such 
thoughts  entirely  from  your  mind,  being  comforted  by  the 
assurance  that,  in  a  few  more  months,  or  years  at  the  longest, 
if  we  have  been  faithful,  we  shall  indeed  be  united,  never 
more  to  part,  in  the  heavens,  where  our  souls,  purified  from 


BOSTON      COMMON.  513 

the  dross  of  earthly  passion,  will  be  capable  of  enjoying  their 
well-earned  reward.     And  now,  Helen,  my  beloved  —  " 

He  arose,  and,  gathering  my  half-fainting  form  to  his 
heart,  gave  me  one  long,  farewell  look ;  and  then,  kneeling, 
breathed  a  deep,  earnest  prayer  to  the  Father  of  spirits.  He 
laid  the  sacrifice  upon  the  altar,  and  only  asked,  only  hoped, 
that  it  might  be  accepted  in  the  spirit  in  which  it  was  given. 

Strange,  that,  in  the  midst  of  this  grief  and  misery,  in  the 
midst  of  this  sundering  of  ties  so  tender,  I  should  feel  so 
calm  ;  strange,  that  the  deep,  sublime  spirit  of  Ernest  had 
power  at  any  time  to  quell  the  wild  billows  of  passion  and 
rebellion  in  my  breast,  and  to  soothe  its  deep,  untold  anguish. 

I  spoke  to  him,  and  my  voice  was  firm  and  unshaken. 
How  could  it  be  otherwise  in  his  presence  ? 

"  Ernest,  I  will  do  your  bidding.  I  will  make  the  sacri 
fice,  and  endeavor  to  make  it  willingly ;  I  will  fulfil  my 
duty,  and  do  what  God  and  right  require  of  me ;  and,  after 
that,  will  still  live  on,  struggle  on,  waiting  and  hoping  only 
for  the  glorious  consummation." 

"  My  own  noble  Helen,  we  are  indeed  fitted  for  each  other, 
and  our  reward  is  sure.  Now,  sit  by  my  side  a  few  moments, 
while  I  relate  to  you  what  arrangements  I  have  made  for 
your  comfort. 

In  view  of  the  approaching  reunion  with  your  husband, 
I  have  hired  and  fitted  up  a  small  cottage  near  the  Common 
you  both  love  so  well.  I  shall  see  that  every  want  is  sup 
plied  during  Roland's  convalescence,  and  even  after  that, 
should  it  be  necessary.  He  will  probably,  however,  feel  more 
independence  and  satisfaction  in  providing  for  the  wants  of 
his  family  himself. 


514  BOSTON     COMMON. 

"  Now,  Helen,  I  have  told  Koland  that  I  would  restore  him 
his  wife  ;  I  have  pitied  his  feelings  as  a  parent,  and  promised 
him  his  child ;  and,  although  it  wrings  my  heart  to  part  with 
you  and  that  sweet  little  cherub,  whose  infantine  caresses 
have  twined  themselves  around  my  heart  so  closely,  yet  go, 
my  Helen,  go ;  and,  when  you  are  indeed  gone,  I  shall  con 
sider  that  I  have  performed  Harry's  dying  request  towards 
you,  —  that  I  have  tried  and  succeeded  in  keeping  you  in  the 
paths  of  duty. 

"  And,  Helen,  I  must  not  see  you  again,  —  at  least,  not  for 
the  present.  My  heart  is  tender,  and,  I  fear,  not  so  strong 
as  heretofore.  I  must  absent  myself  from  you  ;  must  not  let 
the  thoughts  of  your  pure  love  unnerve  me  ;  must  not  subject 
myself  to  any  more  trials,  but  strive  to  fulfil  my  ministerial 
duties  with  as  much  faithfulness  as  though  this  bitter  agony 
had  not  been,  —  as  if  the  heart  beating  in  my  breast  had  not 
been  wounded." 

I  understood  him.  "  I  will  go  at  once,  dear  Ernest,"  said 
I.  "  I  will,  even  though  it  be  fete,  commence  my  work  im 
mediately." 

"  You  are  quite  right,  Helen,"  he  answered,  in  a  firm  tone ; 
"  that  is  the  way ;  begin  at  once,  and  the  bitterness  will 
sooner  be  past." 

I  retired  to  my  chamber,  and,  seating  myself  at  my  writ 
ing-desk,  penned  rapidly  a  few  lines  to  my  dear  parents. 
Theft,  wrapping  my  shawl  about  me,  and  taking  my  sleeping 
child  in  my  arms,  I  descended  once  more  to  the  study.  The 
carriage  was,  by  Ernest's  order,  already  in  waiting. 

"  Your  trunks  shall  be  sent  to-morrow,  Helen,"  said  he, 
taking  the  child  in  his  arms. 


BOSTON     COMMON.  515 

He  walked  to  the  carriage,  and,  kissing  Willie,  and  breath 
ing  a  blessing  over  him,  laid  him  softly  upon  the  cushions. 
He  then  folded  me  in  his  arms,  and,  saying  "  God  forever 
bless  you,  my  own  little  Nellie  ! "  put  me  into  the  carriage 
and  turned  away. 


CHAPTER    LIU. 

"  Then  came  Peter  to  him,  and  said,  Lord,  how  oft  shall  my  brother 
sin  against  me,  and  I  forgive  him  ?  till  seven  times  ? 

"  Jesus  saith  unto  him,  I  say  not  unto  thee  until  seven  times,  but 
until  seventy  times  seven." 

MATTHEW  18:  21,  22. 

I  SANK  back,  and,  in  spite  of  my  resolution,  my  religion, 
and  Ernest's  wish  to  the  contrary,  a  cold,  dismal  feeling  took 
possession  of  my  heart,  which  I  endeavored  in  vain  to  shake 
off. 

The  idea  of  so  soon  meeting  Roland  nearly  overcame  me. 
I  strove  to  still  my  aching  heart,  and  make  it  obedient  to  my 
will,  and  a  little  calmness  was  the  result  before  I  arrived. 

A  beautiful  cottage  was  that  provided  by  Ernest's  kindness, 
and  it  was  quite  evident  that  poverty  was  not  one  of  the 
evils  I  should  have  to  encounter. 

The  carriage  stopped,  and  a  neat-looking  servant-girl  came 
to  receive  us.  I  gave  her  the  babe,  and,  staggering  from  the 
carriage,  my  heart  beating  with  strange  emotions,  I  gained 
the  door. 

A  pretty  little  parlor,  with  an  inviting  sofa,  attracted  my 
attention,  and  I  immediately  sought  it.  I  untied  my  bonnet, 
and  threw  it  languidly  upon  the  table.  The  girl  entered. 


BOSTON     COMMON.  517 

"  Madam,"  said  she,  "  Mr.  Hastings  desired  me  to  ask  you 
if  you  would  see  him  now." 

Striving  to  subdue  my  emotion,  I  said,  "  Certainly,  cer 
tainly.  Tell  him  that  I  am  ready." 

I  stood  with  my  back  towards  the  door,  bending  over  my 
sleeping  child,  and  striving  in  vain  to  still  my  beating  heart, 
which  would  tremble  in  spite  of  me,  when  I  was  conscious  of 
a  slight  noise  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  door.  Still  I  did 
not  turn ;  I  seemed  to  be  spell-bound  to  the  spot.  The  per 
son  advanced,  and,  when  near  me,  I  heard  the  words  faintly 
pronounced,  "  Helen  —  my  wife !  " 

I  turned  slowly  around,  and  beheld  my  husband,  but  so 
changed,  so  emaciated,  that  I  scarcely  recognized  him.  He 
was  looking  at  me  tenderly,  but  with  a  half-timid  expression. 
I  held  out  my  hand. 

"  Roland,"  said  I,  "  I  am  glad  to  see  you." 

"  Helen,  -dearest  Helen,"  said  he,  kneeling,  "  you  have 
come  ;  you  have  forsaken  friends  and  all,  once  more  to  share 
my  humble  destinies,  to  pour  the  balm  of  consolation  into 
my  sad  heart,  and  to  help  me  on  in  the  rugged  paths  of  life. 
Heaven  bless  you,  my  Helen !  But  my  many  sins  against 
you  —  can  you,  will  you  forgive  them,  and  look  upon  me  with 
any  degree  of  complacency  again  ?  O,  my  Helen  !  " 

tie  wept.  I  looked  upon  him.  Could  I  behold  that  once- 
loved  form  kneeling  at  my  feet,  with  pale  cheeks  and  clasped 
hands  ?  Could  I  see  that  emaciated  frame,  and  look  into 
those  sunken  eyes,  and  withhold  pity  and  forgiveness  from 
him  ?  No.  I  extended  my  hand,  and,  through  my  stream 
ing  tears,  said : 

"  Roland,  my  husband,  arise.  My  full  and  free  forgiveness 
44 


518  BOSTON    COMMON. 

you  have,  and  we  will  never  again  allude  to  these  distressing 
subjects.  Let  the  past  be  buried  in  oblivion,  and  let  the 
future  bear  the  record  of  brighter,  happier  days." 

"  0,  Helen,  kind,  forgiving  Helen !  now  do  I  see  the 
beauty  of  the  Ch'ristian  spirit.  It  is  full  of  kindness,  full 
of  charity,  and  ever  denies  itself  blessings  to  minister  to  the 
comforts  of  others." 

He  arose.     "  And  our  boy,  Helen,  —  our  Willie  ?  " 

I  placed  the  babe  in  his  arms.  He  bent  over  it  in 
prayer,  and  for  some  moments  spoke  not.  Then,  kissing  its 
brow,  he  laid  it  gently  upon  the  sofa  again,  and  sighed. 

"  0,  fool  that  I  have  been ! "  said  he,  "  to  barter  these 
sweet  blessings  for  the  tempter  —  to  give  up  wife,  child,  and 
home,  for  the  haunts  of  sin  and  misery !  And  now,  even 
now,  when  I  might  repent  and  do  better,  might  live  many 
years  with  my  family  in  happiness,  I  must  die !  " 

"  Die,  Roland  ?  0  no  !  you  are  recovering,  —  at  least,  so 
Ernest  told  me." 

"  No,  Helen,  't  is  but  a  delusion.  I  shall  never  be  well 
again.  My  health  and  strength  are  gone,  and,  in  the  spring 
time  of  manhood,  I  shall  fall  —  shall  leave  my  precious  ones 
just  when  I  have  begun  to  value  them,  just  when  I  have  at 
last  learned  to  appreciate  them,  to  the  mercies  of  a  c.old 
world." 

"  Roland,  you  are  sad  and  weary  to-night.  This  sudden 
meeting  has  been  too  much  for  your  strength.  Please  return 
to  your  chamber  now,  and  try  and  obtain  some  rest ;  you  will 
feel  better  in  the  morning." 

He  arose,  and,  kissing  Willie,  and  bidding  me  good-night, 
went  out. 


BOSTON     COMMON.  519 

I  flung  myself  upon  the  sofa,  and  wept.  Koland's  altered 
appearance,  and  the  idea  of  his  death,  had  deeply  affected  and 
pained  me.  Ernest  had  said  that  he  was  recovering ;  but  I 
could  see  no  marks  of  health  in  those  trembling  hands,  or 
in  that  pale,  wasted  cheek  ;  and,  for  the  first  time,  the  proba 
bility  of  my  husband's  death  struck  upon  my  heart  with  a 
cold  and  dreary  weight. 

"But  I  must  arise,"  thought  I,  "and  seek  my  chamber; 
for  to-morrow  my  new  duties  commence,  and  I  am  firmly 
resolved  that  nothing  shall  be  wanting  on  my  part  to  add  to 
my  husband's  happiness  and  comfort.  I  have  made  the  sacri 
fice;  -and  I  will  not,  God  helping  me,  fail  in  one  jot  or  tittle 
of  my  duty  towards  him."  ' 

Full  of  these  resolutions,  I  arose  in  the  morning  and 
descended  to  Roland's  room.  He  was  awake,  and  I  greeted 
him  cheerfully. 

"  Helen,"  said  he,  "  how  fresh  and  happy  you  look,  this 
morning ;  —  do  you  feel  so  ?  " 

"  I  am  always  cheerful,  dear  Roland,  when  I  am  doing  right. 
We  can  scarcely  fail,  whatever  the  circumstances,  of  being 
happy  at  such  times,  you  know." 

"  0,  Helen,  would  to  heaven  I  had  understood  this  before  ! 
'It  would  have  saved  you  many  suffering  hours,  —  me  many 
sins,  and  lengthened  my  life." 

"  Come,  come,  Roland,  no  more  of  that !  I  am  not  going 
to  have  you  continually  referring  to  the  past,  now  while  you 
are  so  ill ;  try  and  forget  »it,  and  think  only  of  the  present. 
You  will  be  better  soon ;  for  I  am  one  of  the  best  nurses  in  the 
world,  you  know,  and  have  brought  you,  with  the  blessing  of 
God,  through  a  much  more  dangerous  period  than  this.  You 


520  BOSTON     COMMON. 

may  yet  recover,  Roland.  Now  try  and  arise,  while  I  get 
ready  your  breakfast." 

I  prepared  a  nice  little  repast  for  him.  In  eating  it  he  did 
seem  to  feel  better,  and  looked  more  cheerful  than  I  had 
seen  him  since  my  arrival. 

"  Now,  Roland,"  said  I,  "  every  warm  day  we  will  ram 
ble  upon  the  Common.  It  looks  beautifully  now.  Its  shady 
bowers  will  soothe  and  tranquillize  your  mind  ;  and  its  cool, 
healthy  breezes  will  renovate  your  frame,  and  fill  it  with  new 
life  and  vigor." 

Roland  sighed.  "  I  have  not  been  in  that  charming  spot 
for  a  long  time,  Helen,"  said  he,  "  and  shall  be  so  happy,  if 
permitted  to  visit  it  with  you  once  more  !  " 

I  now  left  Roland,  to  explore  my  new  domain.  I  found  it  a 
snug  little  place,  stored  with  every  necessary  article  for  com 
fort  and  use.  In  the  soft  couch,  the  luxurious  arm-chair,  and 
beautiful  books,  I  read  the  hand  of  love ;  and,  dropping  a  silent 
tear  for  the  unhappy  Ernest,  resolved  it  should  be  the  last, 
and  again  sought  my  husband. 

I  strove  by  every  convincing  argument  to  make  him  feel  at 
ease  in  my  society ;  but  he  appeared  to  think  that  I  had  been 
sinned  against  too  deeply  ever  to  forget  or  forgive  it.  A 
little  calmness,  however,  a  little  cheerfulness,  was  the  result 
of  the  morning's  conversation ;  and  I  had  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  him  smile  once  more  as  of  old,  and  promise  to  be 
happy,  for  my  sake. 

I  was  sitting  in  the  little  parlor,  after  dinner,  with  my  hus 
band  and  child,  when  I  was  somewhat  surprised  by  a  visit 
from  my  father  and  mother.  They  entered  and  seated  them 
selves,  without  much  ceremony.  I  never  saw  such  grief  and 


BOSTON     COM  M.O  N  .  521 

disappointment  depicted  upon  their  countenances  before. 
They  looked  sad  and  surprised,  and  glanced  at  me  reproach 
fully. 

"  Helen,"  said  my  mother,  "  what  is  the  meaning  of  this? 
Do  you,  in  spite  of  reason,  friends,  love,  and  all,  throw  away 
happiness,  riches,  respectability,  and  madly  rush  once  more 
into  the  haunts  of  vice  and  degradation,  with  your  miserable 
partner  ?  " 

Roland  arose,  and  left  the  room  in  haste. 

"  Ah  ! "  said  my  father,  "  I  should  think  you  would  be 
ashamed  to  show  your  face,  after  what  has  happened  !  " 

I  sat  in  silence,  not  daring  to  speak.  For  the  first  time 
in  my  life,  I  found  myself  involved  in  a  quarrel  with  my 
parents,  and  I  scarcely  knew  how  to  extricate  myself  therefrom. 

""Mother,  father  !  "  said  I,  at  length,  imploringly,  "  do 
not  add  to  my  affliction  by  your  reproaches  !  I  could  not 
endure  them,  in  my  present  state  of  mind.  My  heart  is 
full  —  " 

"  Yes,"  interrupted  my  mother,  "  I  should  think  it  might 
be ;  ay,  full  to  overflowing  !  But  what,  in  the  world,  could 
induce  you  to  come  back  to  your  wretched  husband,  when 
everything  was  arranged  for  a  separation  between  you,  and 
you  might  have  been  so  happily  settled,  in  a  short  time  ?  " 
•  "  Duty,  mother,  duty  !  " 

"  Duty  !  "  exclaimed  she,  petulantly.  "  I  have  no  patience 
with  the  girl !  What  duty  do  you  owe  to  a  husband,  who  has 
lost^by  his  base  conduct,  all  right,  all  title,  to  that  sacred 
name  ?  —  who  has,  by  his  drunkenness  and  dissipation, 
brought  you  to  poverty  and  disgrace  ?  What  possible  duty, 
I  say,  do  you  owe  to  a  wretch  like  this  ?  " 
44* 


522  BOSTON     COMMON. 

"  None,  —  if  he  still  persisted  in  these  errors ;  neither 
would  I  permit  myself  or  child  to  live  in  an  atmosphere  of 
vice  ;  but,  dearest  mother,  he  has  repented,  he  has  abandoned 
his  evil  habits,  and  now  hates  such  things  as  heartily  as 
either  you  or  myself." 

"  He  repent !  He  leave  off  drinking  and  gambling  !  "  said 
my  father.  "  The  idea  of  Roland  Hastings  reforming ! 
Pshaw  !  it 's  absurd ;  and,  even  if  he  should  reform,  why  do 
you  wish  to  live  with  him  again  ?  Why  seek  to  encounter 
scorn,  disgrace,  and  all  the  ills  that  poverty  ca'rries  in  its 
train  ?  Leave  him  at  once,  Helen.  Take  Willie  and  return 
with  us  to  Linden,  where  everything  that  kindness  and  affec 
tion  can  suggest  shall  be  done  for  your  comfort." 

"  I  cannot,  dear  father !  I  have  no  right  to  reject  Ro 
land's  penitence, — no  right  to  turn  away  from  him,  when 
God  is  ready  to  forgive.  I  must  do  as  my  heart  dictates,  in 
spite  of  all." 

"  Helen,"  said  my  mother,  earnestly,  "  you  know  not  what 
you  say.  By -living  with  Roland  again,  you  will  bring  the 
scorn  of  all  your  friends  and  acquaintances  upon  you.  The 
whole  .world  will  accuse  you  of  weakness  and  folly,  and  the 
only  reward  you  will  obtain  will  be  to  see  Roland  turning 
back  and  pursuing  the  same  course  as  before.  He  will  surely 
return  to  all  his  old  habits,  in  a  ten-fold  degree,  and  will 
shorten  your  life,  my  poor  child,  by  his  wickedness. 

"  We  all  know  the  weakness  of  Roland's  mind.  He  is 
vacillating,  irresolute,  possesses  no  firmness,  and  it  would 
take  but  a  feather's  weight  to  turn  him,  at  any  time.  Do, 
my  child,  leave  him  now,  while  it  is  not  too  late,  and  come 
with  us." 


BOSTON      COMMON.  523 

"  Mother,  although  I  should  encounter  the  scorn  of  the 
whole  world,  though  poverty  and  disgrace  await  me,  yet  I 
would  still  do  ray  duty.  God  will  not  scorn  me ;  and  all  those 
friends  whose  good  opinion  is  worth  having  will  understand 
my  motives  and  respect  them,  instead  of  scorning  me.  Roland 
was  once  weak-minded,  I  know ;  but  now  the  blessed  Spirit 
of  God  has  breathed  upon  him,  and  made  him  strong.  His 
sins  are  washed  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb,  and  he  is,  I  think, 
an  altered  being. 

"  Can  I,  for  a  moment,  forbear  to  assist  this  new  subject  of 
grace  along  the  paths  he  has  chosen  ?  Can  I  refuse  to  lend 
him  a  helping  hand  ?  or  can  I  see  my  husband,  the  father  of 
my  child,  pining  and  dying  alone,  far  from  that  wife  and 
child  ?  Can  I  leave  hired  hands  to  smooth  his  dying  pillow, 
or  strangers'  ears  to  catch  his  last  words  ?  No,  mother ;  in 
spite  of  the  censure  of  the  whole  world,  I  will  remain  with 
him  until  the  last  moment,  and  will  do  everything  in  my 
power  to  lengthen  that  life,  even  by  the  sacrifice  of  my  own." 

"  Why,  Helen !  I  am  astonished  to  hear  you  talk  in  this 
manner,  and  after  all  your  letters,  this  winter,  concerning  your 
love  for  Ernest.  Have  you  forgotten  him  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed,  mother,"  I  answered,  weeping.  "  I  truly  love 
Ernest  still ;  but  did  he  fail  to  set  me  aright  in  every  point, 
even  where  it  involved  my  earthly  happiness,  I  should  no 
longer  respect  him,  no  longer  feel  for  him  that  deep  love  and 
admiration  which  now  fills  my  heart.  But  Ernest's  noble 
nature,  his  deep  and  fervent  piety,  his  total  forgetfulness  of 
self,  and  his  great  and  strong  heart,  I  love.  Were  he  devoid 
of  these,  I  might  no  longer  love  him.  It  would  not  be 
Ernest,  mother,  but  some  dark,  powerful  spirit,  that  had 


524  BOSTON     COMMON. 

driven  out  his  glorious  mind,  and  taken  up  its  abode  in  the 
fair  temple.  I  should  no  longer  recognize  Ernest,  mother." 

"  Then  Ernest  did,  really,  as  he  told  us  to-day,  advise  you 
to  this  business  ?  " 

"  He  did,  dear  mother ;  and  arranged  everything  for  my 
comfort  here,  in  the  tenderest,  most  delicate  manner  pos 
sible." 

"  I  am  astonished  that  Ernest,  with  his  love  for  you,  with 
his  pretended  or  real  devotion  to  your  happiness,  could  so 
easily  give  you  up  to  another,  —  nay,  more,  provide,  so  coolly 
and  calmly,  a  habitation  for  you  to  dwell  in  with  that  other ; 
and  advise,  urge,  command  you,  as  he  told  us  he  did,  to 
leave  him  for  that  other.  I  cannot  understand  it  at  all." 

"  But  few  can,  dearest  mother.  Few  can  understand  the 
depth  of  that  man's  mind,  the  noble  greatness  of  his  nature. 
And  yet,  I  doubt  not  but  Ernest's  struggles  to  overcome  his 
stubborn,  rebellious  heart  are  even  greater  than  ours ;  but, 
by  the  grace  of  God,  by  constant  prayer  at  his  footstool,  he 
is  enabled  to  conquer." 

"  Well,  Nellie,"  said  my  poor  mother,  weeping,  "  I  do  not 
know  but  you  are  right.  It  is  very  hard,  however,  to  see 
you  once  more,  and  voluntarily,  seeking  the  same  troubles 
you  were  anxious  to  escape  from  a  year  ago ;  and  I  did  hope, 
before  I  died,  to  have  seen  you  wedded  to  your  cousin  Ernest. 
It  has  long  been  the  darling  wish  of  my  heart." 

"  And  of  mine,  also,"  echoed  my  father. 

"  God  knows  best,  dear  father  and  mother,"  I  answered, 
"  and  will  bring  everything  right,  in  time." 

After  some  further  conversation,  my  parents  left,  and  my 
heart  was  rejoiced  at  seeing  them  feel  so  much  more  recon- 


BOSTON     COMMON.  525 

ciled  to  my  new  arrangement.  I  had  anticipated  a  serious 
quarrel,  when  they  came  in;  but  was  spared  what  would 
have  been,  in  my  then  state  of  mind,  unendurable. 

They  called  several  times  at  the  cottage,  before  leaving  the 
city ;  and  I  was  rejoiced  to  see  them  conversing  with  Roland 
with  a  little  of  their  old  cordiality,  which  the  poor  fellow 
seemed  truly  grateful  for.  Before  leaving  Boston,  they  gave 
him  some  very  good  advice,  which  was  somewhat  superfluous, 
however,  for  Roland  was  truly  an  altered  being.  He  was,  in 
every  sense  of  the  word,  a  Christian ;  and,  as  such,  tried  to 
live  up  to  the  doctrines  of  the  holy  Bible. 

Every  morning  I  read  to  him  a  portion  of  the  Scriptures, 
and  prayed  with  him.  How  my  heart  bounded  with  joy 
when  I  heard  my  husband,  whom  I  had  long  ago  given  up 
for  lost,  praying !  I  was  filled  with  praise  and  thanksgiving. 

"  It  was  Ernest  who  brought  the  light  of  the  Gospel  into 
my  gloomy  heart,"  said  he,  one  day.  "  He  prayed  for  me, 
and  exhorted  me  to  turn  from  my  evil  ways.  He  opened  to 
my  darkened  eyes  a  clear  path.  He  showed  me  Jesus  ex 
piring  upon  the  cross  for  me ;  and  how  quickly  did  I  embrace 
him !  —  how  gladly  turn  to  rest  my  weary  soul  upon  that 
Rock !  And  how  kindly  did  He  receive  me  !  He  buried  my 
manifold  transgressions  in  forgetfulness,  and  breathed  peace, 
deep  peace,  into  my  soul." 

"  Long  ago,  dear  Roland,  when  we  were  at  Saratoga,  I 
dreamed,  one  night,  I  saw  you  expiring,  in  a  deep,  muddy 
slough.  I  tried  to  assist  you,  by  every  means  in  my  power, 
to  arise ;  but  my  strength  was  not  equal  to  the  task. 

"  Suddenly,  when  all  hope  had  expired,  I  saw  Ernest  ad 
vancing  towards  us.  His  head  was  erect,  and  his  step  firm  j 


526  BOSTON     COMMON. 

but  I  fancied,  in  my  dream,  that  I  trembled,  for  fear  he 
would  sink  and  perish  in  one  of  the  pitfalls  that  abounded  in 
our  darkened  way. 

"  But  his  eye  was  steadily  fixed  upon  a  light  that  gleamed 
in  the  distance.  He  came  nearer  and  nearer;  and,  when  he 
had  reached  us,  with  a  calm,  melancholy  smile,  and  the 
strength  of  a  lion,  he  lifted  us  both  from  the  slough,  placed 
us  in  safety  upon  the  bank,  and  then  left  us." 

"  Helen,  how  significant  was  this  dream !  Ernest  has  assisted 
you  in  many  emergencies,  advised  you  in  many  difficulties ; 
but  me  he  has  rescued  from  a  spiritual  death.  I  was  groping 
in  midnight  darkness,  benighted  in  the  wilderness  of  sin, 
sinking  indeed  in  the  dark  slough  of  despair,  —  when  he 
came,  and,  with  his  earnest  solicitations,  prayerful  entreaties, 
and  cheering  words  of  hope,  brought  light,  peace,  and  joy,  into 
my  soul." 

I  used  to  sit  thus  for  hours,  listening  to  Roland's  conver 
sation.  I  never  realized  before  the  power  of  God  over  the 
human  heart.  Here  was  a  man  of  weak,  vacillating  mind, 
—  one  who  had  long  indulged  in  every  debasing  habit,  which 
had  tended  to  weaken  his  powers  still  more,  —  here  was  this 
man,  brought  humbly  at  the  foot  of  the  Cross,  even  as  a 
little  child;  willing,  nay,  rejoiced,  to  give  up  all  the  habits 
of  his  life,  and  humbly  and  earnestly  seeking  for  the  one 
thing  needful. 

Every  pleasant  day,  we  sauntered  out  upon  the  Common, 
for  a  walk.  Willie  was  generally  with  us ;  and  Roland  never 
seemed  happier  than  when  seated  beneath  the  shady  trees, 
watching  the  playfulness  of  his  boy. 

We  spent  so  much  of  our  time  here,  that  I  had  a  large  seat 


BOSTON    COMMON.  527 

made,  with  a  back  and  arms.  This  I  covered  and  stuffed, 
and  had  it  conveyed  each  day  to  the  Common.  Many  hours 
have  I  spent  in  this  seat  with  Roland,  who  was  never  weary 
of  gazing  upon  the  beautiful  scenes  spread  out  before  him. 
Often,  however,  we  would  wander  about  the  paths,  or  stop  to 
ponder  over  Harry's  grave,  and  muse  upon  the  shortness  of 
life,  and  the  certainty  of  death. 

"  Helen,"  said  Roland,  one  day,  with  much  seriousness  in 
his  manner,  "  I  wish  you  would  bury  me  in  this  sweet  spot, 
when  I  die,  —  will  you  ?  " 

"  0,  Roland,"  I  answered,  "  why  talk  of  dying  ?  You  may 
yet  live  to  bury  me." 

"  No,  Helen,  that  can  hardly  be.  You  are  young,  strong, 
and  healthy,  and  your  temperate  habits  will  probably  tend 
to  lengthen  your  days  to  a  great  extent ;  while  I  have  wasted 
my  health,  exhausted  my  energies,  and  thrown  away  my  life. 
I  must  now  pay  the  penalty  of  it.  I  must,  while  still  young, 
die.  I  have  trampled  upon  Nature's  laws ;  and  she  now  de 
mands  a  sacrifice  —  the  sacrifice  of  my  poor  life.  Helen,  you 
will,  if  possible,  bury  me  in  this  sweet  spot,  will  you  not  ?  You 
will  be  happy  when  I  am' gone;  and  I  know  that  this  place 
will  never  be  forgotten  by  you,  —  but  you  will  often  visit  it, 
and  sometimes  stop,  and  look  upon  my  lowly  grave ;  perhaps, 
too,  will  drop  a  tear  for  him  who  died  so  young,  and  who 
then  rests  beneath  the  sod. 

"  And,  Helen,  you  will  never  let  Willie  forget  me ;  but 
you  will  take  him  here  often,  and  talk  to  him  of  the  father 
he  lost  so  early  in  life.  Tell  him  of  that  father's  faults, 
and,  0,  beseech  him  to  avoid  them.  Tell  him  of  his  conver 
sion  and  happiness,  and  entreat  of  him  to  seek  for  peace  in 
the  same  way." 


528  BOSTON     COMMON. 

I  was  weeping  bitterly  while  Roland  spoke,  but,  when  he 
had  concluded,  said, 

"  I  will  do  all  you  have  asked,  my  husband.  No  request 
of  yours,  however  simple,  shall  be  disregarded." 

We  met  a  great  many  people  upon  the  Common ;  and 
numbers  seemed  to  notice,  with  much  interest,  the  slight, 
girlish  figure  that  supported  so  carefully  the  trembling  steps 
of  the  invalid.  All  looked  at  us  with  pity,  and  many  offered 
us  their  assistance.  Some  conversed  with  Roland  of  his 
illness,  and  others  advised  him  of  remedies. 

Everything  that  could  help  to  restore  him  to  health  was 
obtained ;  and,  so  fearful  was  I  that  he  might  want  for  med 
icine  or  aid,  that,  a  few  weeks  after  I  went  to  the  little 
cottage  to  live,  I  sent  to  Linden,  and  had  my  only  remaining 
piece  of  property  sold.  The  money  which  I  received  for  it 
was  deposited  in  the  bank ;  and,  as  fast  as  I  required  it  for 
Roland's  necessities,  I  drew  it  therefrom.  A  part  of  it,  also, 
was  devoted  to  buying  him  a  bury  ing-place  in  the  spot  he 
loved  so  well. 

One  day,  as  we  were  slowly  sauntering  up  and  down  one 
of  the  paths  of  the  Common,  I  heard  a  familiar  voice  ap 
proaching  me.  Looking  hastily  up,  I  beheld  once  more  the 
face  of  Mrs.  John  Smith.  She  was  in  company  with  another 
lady.  Both  were  dressed  in  the  height  of  fashion ;  and,'  as 
they  swept  by  me,  Letitia  tossed  her  head,  and  passed  without 
a  word,  while  her  companion  honored  me  with  a  fashionable 
stare.  I  heard  a  suppressed  titter,  as  they  passed,  and  was 
foolish  enough  to  feel  quite  indignant  about  it  for  a  moment ; 
but  I  soon  felt  only  contempt  and  pity  for  them :  contempt, 
that  they  should  be  so  lost  to  the  dictates  of  politeriess  and 


BOSTON     COMMON.  529 

humanity ;  and  pity,  that  they  should  be  so  wicked  as  to  sneer 
at  a  sick,  perhaps  dying,  man. 

Koland,  immersed  in  his  own  beautiful  reveries,  had  not 
seen  them ;  and,  if  he  had,  it  would  not  have  troubled  him. 
He  was  fast  leaving  the  vanities  of  earth,  and  cleaving  to 
things  spiritual. 

45 


CHAPTER   LIV. 

"  0  thou  sad  spirit,  whose  preposterous  yoke 
The  great  deliverer,  Death,  at  length  has  broke, 
Released  from  misery,  and  escaped  from  care, 
Go,  meet  that  mercy  man  denies  thee  here. 

"  If,  then,  thy  troubled  soul  haa  learned  to  dread 
The  dark  unknown  thy  trembling  footsteps  tread, 
On  Him  who  made  thee  what  thou  art  depend : 
He  who  withholds  the  means,  accepts  the  end." 

Miss  HANKAH  MORE. 

IN  our  rambles,  we  had  long  noticed  a  forlorn,  emaciated- 
looking  being,  who  sold  oranges  and  candy,  under  one  of  the 
trees,  near  the  pond.  She  had  often  gazed  after  us  with  such 
earnest  looks,  that  I  paused  one  day  before  her  table,  and 
bought  some  oranges  of  her. 

She  did  not  look  at  me  as  I  purchased  them,  but  appeared 
so  grateful  for  the  act,  that  I  determined  to  buy  fruit  from 
her  stand  every  day. 

Something  in  her  air,  although  I  could  never  see  directly 
into  her  face,  reminded  me  of  one  whom  I  had  seen  before. 
Both  Roland  and  myself  noticed  it,  and  tried,  for  a  long 
while,  to  remember  who  it  was  she  resembled ;  but,  as  we 
were  not  successful,  we  contented  ourselves  with  buying  her 
fruit,  and  paying  her  a  good  price  for  it. 


BOSTON     COMMON.  531 

I  often  noticed  that  she  watched  us  very  narrowly,  and 
seemed  to  be  quite  interested  in  us.  Supposing,  however, 
that  the  feeble  appearance  of  Roland  attracted  her  atten 
tion,  I  soon  ceased  to  wonder  upon  it,  but  still  purchased  her 
fruit,  and  then,  as  the  subject  puzzled  me,  dismissed  it  from 
my  mind. 

After  a  while,  I  missed  her  from  her  stand,  and  was  quite 
disappointed  in  not  finding  her  there,  day  after  day,  as  I  liked 
her  fruit,  and  felt  somewhat  interested  in  her.  She  had 
been  troubled  with  a  severe  cough  for  some  time,  and  I  feared 
she  might  now  be  ill.  I  reflected  that,  deprived  of  her  daily 
support,  she  might  even  now  be  suffering  for  the  necessaries 
of  life,  and  perhaps  die  for  the  want  of  assistance. 

Accordingly,  one  day,  leaving  Roland  and  Willie  under  a 
tree,  I  walked  up  to  an  old  apple-woman,  who  always  sat  near 
her,  and  inquired  where  the  person  was  who  sold  oranges  to 
me,  some  time  since. 

"  0,  ma'am,"  replied  the  woman,  "  she  be  very  sick." 
"  I  supposed  as  much.     What  is  the  matter  with  her  ?  " 
"  0,  she  has  had  a  great  cough  for  a  long  time ;  and  the 
doctor,  who  came  there  once,  says  that  she  be  's  so  bad,  and 
so  fierce-like,  that  she  will  die." 

"  Indeed  !     Has  she  any  friends  with  her  ?  " 
"  0,  no,  ma'am  !     She  be 's  a  poor  creature  like.     She  has 
no  friends,  nor  no  money,  as  we  knows  of." 

"  Does  she,  then,  suffer  for  medicine  or  food  ?  " 
"  0,  tyess  you,  yes,  indeed,  ma'am  !     She  has  no  medicines  j 
for  we  be  a  poor  set  down  there,  and  can  hardly  get  money 
enough  to  buy  food,  to  feed  our  childers  with." 

"  Will   you  show  me  where   she   lives  ?     I  will  go   and 


532  BOSTON    COMMON. 

see  her,  and  endeavor  to  make  her  a  little  more  comfort 
able." 

"  0,  thank  you,  ma'am.  Bless  your  pretty  eyes ;  they 
shine  like  two  buttons,  to  be  sure  !  Yes,  indeed,  I  will  go  and 
show  you  ;  but,  perhaps,  madam  will  be  ashamed  to  walk  with 
a  poor  body  like  me,  —  hey  ?  " 

"  O,  no,  indeed  !  I  should  never  think  of  such  a  thing." 

"  Well,  then,  Nance,  come  here." 

She  called  to  a  great,  sunburnt  girl,  who  was  lying  at 
full-  length  upon  the  grass,  enjoying  the  privileges  of  a  free 
country  with  a  natural  relish.  "  Come  here,  Nance,  and 
tend  this  here  table,  while  I  goes  with  the  lady ;  and  if  you 
eats  any  of  the  stuff  while  I  'm  gone,  0,  my  !  won't  I  wallop 
you,  when  I  gets  back  !  " 

"  Never  mind,  now,"  said  I.  "  I  will  go  after  dinner,  when 
my  sick  husband  is  asleep." 

"  0,  bless  you,  very  well,  ma'am !  you  be 's  so  kind  to  the 
dear  sick  gentleman ;  and  well  you  might  be,  for  a  prettier 
man  you  won't  find  in  this  here  whole  city." 

Without  saying  anything  to  Roland,  who  did  not  seem  to 
miss  the  orange-seller,  I  went  to  the  old  apple-vendor  in  the 
afternoon,  and  claimed  her  promised  escort. 

Nance  was  left  in  charge  of  the  stand,  and  I  followed  the 
old  woman,  as  she  hobbled  along,  through  a  number  of  streets, 
until  she  reached  one  much  shorter  than  the  rest,  and  entered 
its  narrow,  filthy  way. 

A  number  of  rickety  buildings  stood  on  each  side  of  the 
street ;  and  about  a  dozen  dirty,  ragged  children,  of  all  ages 
and  sizes,  were  playing  about  the  doors. 

In  an  old,  tumble-down  house,  and  across  a  rotten  door- 


BOSTON     COMMON.  533 

step,  my  guide  now  led  the  way.  We  climbed  three  pairs  of 
stairs,  and  at  length  stopped  before  a  low  door  in  the  attic. 

"  Here,  ma'am,  bless  your  patience,"  said  the  old  woman, 
"here  is  Mistress  Bessie's  room.  You  can  go  in,  if  you 
like." 

Half  frightened  at  the  misery  I  saw  on  every  side  around 
me,  I  softly  opened  the  door,  and  went  in.  I  glanced  around 
the  room.  Two  or  three  panes  of  glass  were  broken,  and  the 
apertures  stuffed  with  old  rags,  which  added  to  the  gloom  of 
this  miserable  apartment.  A  chair  or  two,  a  three-legged 
table,  which  stood  against  the  smoky  wall,  and  a  mean 
truckle-bed,  completed  the  furniture  of  the  room. 

I  approached  the  bed.  A  human  form,  or  rather  skeleton, 
lay  stretched  upon  it ;  and  the  large  sunken  eyes,  and  pallid 
cheeks,  told  a  tale  of  misery  and  suffering  which  I  had  never 
before  witnessed. 

Once  more  my  eyes  were  riveted  upon  that  face,  and  this 
time  with  no  common  interest. 

"  It  is,"  I  exclaimed,  "  yes,  certainly  it  is,  although  so  worn 
and  wasted  by  suffering,  that  I  should  scarcely  recognize  her 
—  poor  Grace  Warrington  !  " 

I  bent  over  her  in  shuddering  surprise.  "  Are  you,  indeed, 
Grace  Warrington  ?  "  I  asked. 

She  started  wildly  from  her  bed,  and,  tossing  back  the  tan 
gled  hair  from  her  pallid  brow,  exclaimed,  in  a  low,  hollow 
tone,  "  Who  calls  upon  the  miserable. Grace  Warrington?  " 

"  'T  is  I,  Grace !     Don't  you  know  me,  —  Mrs.  Hastings  ?  " 

"  Ah ! "  she  exclaimed,  sitting  upright  in  the  bed,  and 
shaking  her  long,  bony  finger  at  me,  "  you  have  come,  have 
you,  to  disturb  my  last,  dying  moments  with  your  reproaches  ? 


534  BOSTON    COMMON. 

• 

Go  away !  I  want  no  more  of  you,  or  your  detestable  hus 
band  !  I  hate  you  both  !  " 

Exhausted  by  the  effort  she  .had  made,,  she  was  suddenly 
seized  with  a  violent  coughing-spell.  The  old  woman  who  had 
accompanied  me  sprang  instantly  forward,  and  caught  her 
in  her  arms. 

"  Mistress  Bessie,  Mistress  Bess,"  said  she,  "  do  stop ! 
Don't  make  such  a  time  of  it !  —  poor,  -suffering  thing  !  There, 
you  are  better,"  she  continued,  as  Grace  ceased,  and  fell  back 
upon  the  bed,  with  a  cheek  pale  as  death. 

I  had  retreated  to  one  corner  of  the  room  during  the  cough- 
ing-spell,  but  now  came  forward,  and,  leaning  over  the  invalid, 
said  : 

"  Dear  Grace,  I  am  a  friend  to  you,  and  wish  to  do 
something  for  you  that  may  help  you." 

"  No,  no,"  said  she.  "  I  don't  want  anything  from  you  ! 
You  need  n't  come  around  me,  with  your  saintly  face,  and  soft 
words  !  Go  away !  I  say,  go  away !  —  your  look  reproaches 
me." 

"  But,  Grace,  I  come  to  you  without  a  single  hard  feeling  in 
my  heart.  I  have  forgiven  you  all,  long  ago;  and  God  has 
kindly  permitted  — " 

"  Who  is  God  ? "  she  wildly  cried.  "  0,  I  remember ! 
My  mother  used  to  talk  to  me  of  him,  when  she  prayed  with 
me,  at  night.  She  said  that  he  made  me,  and  wanted  me  to 
do  right ;  but  I  was  very  beautiful,  and  that  was  my  ruin.  I 
had  fine  eyes,  and  I  was  vain  of  them.  I  had  long,  golden 
ringlets,  too,  but  I  cut  them  all  off,  and  sold  them  to  keep 
me  from  starving.  And,  long  ago,  I  forgot  my  mother,  for 
got  my  God,  and  all." 


BOSTON     COMMON.  535 

"  But,  Grace,  God  has  not  forgotten  you.  He  still  waits 
for  you  to  repent  and  come  to  him." 

"  'T  is  too  late,"  she  sobbed,  — "  too  late !  He  would 
laugh  at  my  prayers,  and  mock  my  entreaties." 

"  No,  Grace,"  said  I,  "  he  would  not.  Let  me  pray  with 
you." 

"  No,"  she  replied.  "  I  do  not  wish  you  to  come  here, 
with  your  gibberish  and  prayers — keep  them  for  others  more 
worthy.  I  will  die  as  I  have  lived.  I  do  not  wish  to  see 
you  again.  Do  you  hear?"  she  wildly  screamed,  —  "I 
never  wish  to  see  either  you  or  your  husband  again,  in  this 
world  or  the  other." 

I  turned  sadly  away,  and  left  the  room,  with  the  old 
woman,  for  I  thought  she  would  feel  better  to  have  me  gone  ; 
and,  after  leaving  with  her  some  money  for  Grace,  and  telling 
her  that  she  was  an  old  acquaintance  of  mine,  I  departed. 

I  was  exceedingly  shocked  at  finding  the  once  beautiful 
and  fascinating  Grace  Warrington  in  such  a  miserable  con 
dition,  and  longed  to  ask  Roland  if  he  could  account  for  it ; 
but,  thinking  that  it  would  revive  unpleasant  recollections, 
I  forbore  to  gratify  my  curiosity  at  the  expense  of  pain  to 
him. 

The  next  afternoon,  I  visited  Grace  again,  in  spite  of  her 
prohibition,  and  carried  her  a  pillow,  some  sheets,  and  other 
articles  of  which  she  stood  in  need.  She  received  both  them 
and  myself  very  sullenly,  and  desired  me  to  leave  her  in 
stantly,  for  she  had  enough  of  me,  she  said. 

I  endeavored,  however,  to  remain  with  her  a  short  time, 
and  tried  to  converse  with  her  concerning  the  future,  to 
which  she  was  so  rapidly  hastening.  She  told  me,  however, 


536  BOSTON     COMMON. 

that  she  did  not  wish  to  hear  anything  about  the  future ;  and 
that  she  wanted  no  prayers,  or  any  of  my  interference. 

Feeling  sad  and  disheartened  at  my  unfruitful  labors,  I 
once  more  returned  home.  Every  day,  for  a  week,  I  visited 
Grace,  and  tried,  with  every  delicacy  for  her  appetite,  to  buy 
her  willingness  to  let  me  read  to  her  from  the  Bible,  or  pray 
with  her. 

My  efforts,  however,  were  all  fruitless.  She  would  fly 
into  a  terrible  passion  when  the  subject  was  mentioned, 
and  a  violent  coughing-spell  would  generally  end  the  scene. 

Fearful  of  hastening  her  disease,  I  at  length  desisted 
from  my  efforts,  leaving  her  in  the  hands  of  God,  knowing 
and  trusting  that  he  would  do  with  her  all  that  was  right. 

One  night,  a  little  after  tea,  Nance  came  running  to  my 
cottage,  with  her  hair  flying,  and  eyes  distended  with  fear. 

"  Mar  wants  you,  Miss  Hastings,"  said  she,  "  to  come  right 
away.  The  critter  is  wus." 

"  Mistress  Bessie,  do  you  mean,  child  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am  ;  she  be  dyin',  we  all  knows." 

I  seized  my  bonnet,  and  hastened  to  Grace's  residence. 
When  we  arrived  there  it  fpas  nearly  dark ;  and  the  reflec 
tion  of  Grace  s  features,  by  the  feeble  lamp-light,  was  ghastly 
in  the  extreme.  She  started  up  in  bed,  at  my  approach,  and 
exclaimed, 

"  Have  you  come  again  to  torture  me,  Helen  Hastings  ?  " 

"  No,  dear  Grace,  not  to  torture,  but  to  comfort  you.  0, 
Grace,  let  me  entreat  of  you  now,  in  this  solemn  hour,  to 
throw  aside  your  obstinacy,  and  come  to  God ;  or  it  will  soon 
be  too  late  !  " 

She  looked  at  me  earnestly.  "  Helen,"  said  she,  "  do  you 
think  I  am  dying  ?  " 


BOSTON     COMMON.  537 

"  I  do,  Grace,  indeed.     0,  let  me  pray  for  you  !  " 
"  No,  Helen,"  she  replied ;  "  but  you  may  bring  me  a 
minister  —  only  be  quick.     I  may  be  gone  ere  your  return." 

A  sudden  thought  darted  into  my  mind,  —  a  wild,  vague 
sensation,  which  nothing  but  the  extremity  of  the  case  could 
have  inspired.  Starting  down  stairs,  I  rushed  out  of  the 
house,  and  jumped  into  the  first  carriage  I  met.  Directing  it 
hastily  to  Summer-street,  No.  — ,  the  driver  mounted  his  box, 

and  we  were  off  in  a  twinkling. 
%  o 

We  soon  arrived  at  the  door,  and,  alighting,  I  gave  the 
bell  a  hasty  pull.  The  servant  who  answered  my  ring  started 
on  seeing  me. 

"  Hush,  Peggy,"  said  I;  "is  your  master  at  home?  " 

"  He  is,  madam,  and  in  his  study.  Miss  Richmond  and 
Mr.  Dennison  are  in  the  drawing-room." 

Desiring  her  not  to  mention  my  arrival  to  Mabel,  and  re 
questing  the  coachman  to  wait  for  me,  I  ran  hastily  up  stairs, 
and  stood  before  the  study  door.  .Another  moment,  and  I 
had  entered,  and  was  in  the  presence  of  Ernest ! 

I  was  dressed  in  white,  as  it  was  the  last  of  July ;  and, 
appearing  before  him  so  suddenly  and  unexpectedly,  quite 
startled  him  for  a  moment. 

He  was  leaning  over  the  table,  writing,  when  I  entered. 
Ah  !  what  thoughts,  what  wild  dreams  and  passions,  did  that 
noble  face  and  form  revive  in  my  mind !  He  glanced  at  me 
in  wonder.  I  went  up  to  him,  and,  laying  my  trembling 
hand  upon  his  arm,  essayed  to  speak;  but  the  words  died 
in  my  throat,  ere  my  tongue  could  give  utterance  to  them. 

"  Helen !  "  said  Ernest,  at  length. 

Recollecting   that   perhaps   a   soul's  happiness   depended 


538  BOSTON    COMMON. 

upon  my  commanding  myself,  and  using  expedition,  I  made 
another  effort,  and  this  time  succeeded. 

"  Ernest !  lose  not  a  moment's  time.  A  poor  woman  is 
dying,  and  needs  your  prayers.  Come  with  me." 

He  arose,  and,  while  putting  on  his  coat  and  hat,  I  had  an 
opportunity  of  looking  at  him  a  moment.  Ah !  I  saw,  with 
agony,  that  the  tall  form  was  bending  slowly,  and  the  hair 
that  lay  upon  the  broad,  fair  brow  was  a  little  whiter  than 
when  last  we  met. 

As  we  silently  descended  the  stairs,  a  choking  sensation 
came  into  my  throat,  as  I  remembered  that  these  changes  in 
my  noble  Ernest  were  caused  by  my  own  folly ;  and,  as  I 
stepped  into  the  carriage,  assisted  by  his  hand,  I  burst  into  a 
violent  fit  of  weeping.  Ernest's  strong  frame  shook  with 
emotion,  but  not  a  word  was  spoken  between  us  during  that 
ride. 

We  arrived  at  the  house,  hurried  up  stairs,  and  entered 
the  room  of  the  dying  woman.  She  was  lying  quite  still 
upon  her  pillow ;  but  the  dreadful  death-rattle  had  already 
commenced,  and  she  had  evidently  but  a  few  moments  longer 
to  live.  I  went  up  to  the  bed,  and,  as  loud  as  my  emotion 
would  allow,  whispered, 

"  Grace,  I  have  brought  you  a  holy  man  of  God.  He  will 
help  your  soul,  if  any  one  can." 

Ernest  approached  her,  and,  after  putting  a  few  questions 
to  her,  to  which  she  replied  in  a  low  tone,  said,  "  Let  us 
pray." 

All  the  miserable  inmates  of  the  room  wept  aloud  at  that 
prayer.  I  never  heard  a  more  fervent,  beautiful  appeal. 
He  stood  in  the  midst  of  that  group,  and  by  that  dying 


BOSTON     COMMON.  539 

couch,  and  poured  out  the  whole  fervor  of  his  strong  soul  at 
the  throne  of  mercy.  He  prayed  that  God  would  take  that 
poor,  wandering  sheep  home  to  his  fold,  and  make  her  his 
own ;  and  that  she  might  truly  repent,  ere  the  films  of  death 
had  gathered  over  her  soul. 

As  he  concluded,  a.  sweet  smile  passed  over  the  features  of 
the  dying  woman ;  and,  with  a  long-drawn  sigh,  but  without 
a  word,  the  spirit  fled.  Grace  was  indeed  gone.  God,  the 
Almighty,  called  her,  in  the  midst  of  that  earnest  supplica 
tion.  Who  can  tell  the  effect  of  that  prayer  upon  her  soul  ? 
We  can  only  hope  and  trust  that  he  had  called  her  to 
himself. 

A  few  moments  after  Grace  had  died,  Ernest  approached 
me,  and,  saying  "  Come,  Helen,"  took  my  hand,  and  we  de 
scended  to  our  carriage.  He  directed  the  coachman  to  carry 
me  to  my  home,  and  then  to  drive  him  to  Summer-street. 

The  dreadful  scenes  -I  had  just  witnessed,  together  with  the 
thoughts  of  being  so  near  Ernest,  overcame  me,  and  once 
more  I  wept.  But  few  words  passed  between  us,  and 
those  were  mostly  questions,  asked  by  Ernest,  concerning 
the  health  of  my  husband,  to  which  I  replied  through  my 
tears. 

When  we  reached  my  cottage,  Ernest  tenderly  lifted  me 
from  the  carriage,  and  whispered,  "  Helen,  my  poor  Helen, 
do  not  weep  so.  God  is  looking  upon  you,  and  he  loves  the 
sacrifice  of  a  willing  heart." 

I  glanced  at  him  as  he  spoke.  His  face  was  pale  as  death, 
and  an  expression  of  woe,  tempered  with  submission,  rested 
upon  it.  I  hastily  bade  him  good-by,  and  ran  into  the  parlor. 
Throwing  myself  upon  the  sofa,  I  listened  attentively  for  the 


U-1U  BOSTON     COMMON. 

departing  coach-wheels ;  and,  as  the  last  sound  died  away  in 
the  distance,  kneeled  and  prayed  for  resignation  and  peace 
both  for  Ernest  and  myself. 

Early  in  the  morning  I  prepared  Grace's  robe,  and,  leaving 
Roland  and  Willie  upon  the  Common,  hurried  away  once  more 
to  the  old  house.  She  had  been  laid  out  neatly,  and  one  of 
the  women  about  her  took  the  robe,  and  placed  it  upon  the 
corpse. 

I  stood  before  the  remains  of  Grace.  "  How  short  a  time," 
thought  I,  "  and  that  poor,  senseless  lump  of  clay  had  power 
to  sting  my  heart  with  the  severest  pangs !  Now  how  cold 
and  still  she  lies,  struck  down  like  the  early  flower,  withered 
and  powerless !  " 

Grace  looked  very  well  in  her  snowy  shroud.  The  same 
calm  smile  that  had  visited  her  in  death  lingered  about  her 
mouth,  and  extended  itself  all  over  the  sunken  features.  I 
placed  a  few  flowers  on  her  breast,  and,  saying  "  Farewell, 
Grace !  "  turned  away. 

"  I  will  send  a  coffin,  and  see  about  the  funeral,"  I  said, 
addressing  one  of  the  women. 

"  You  need  not,  ma'am  ;  for  the  gentleman-saint  who  came 
here  with  you  last  night  was  here  early  this  morning,  and 
told  me  he  would  send  a  coffin  this  afternoon,  and  would  him 
self  make  the  prayer,  and  see  about  burying  her.  Bless  his 
sweet,  noble  face !  he  looks,  for  all  the  world,  just  like  you, 
ma'am! " 

Dear  Ernest !  it  was  so  like  him  to  take  all  the  trouble  off 
my  hands  !  I  inquired  of  the  woman  if  she  knew  anything 
of  Grace's  history,  or  if  she  had  left  any  papers  or  clothes 
behind  her. 


BOSTON     COMMON.  541 

"  I  don't  know,  ma'am,"  was  her  answer.  "  She  came 
here  about  six  months  ago,  and  was  quite  poorly  at  the 
time.  She  said  that  her  name  was  Bessie  Gray,  and  that 
she  had  tried  all  sorts  of  ways  to  get  a  living,  and  at  last 
had  to  take  up  with  selling  fruit  and  candy  upon  the  Com 
mon." 

She  then  showed  me  a  small  box,  which  she  said  contained 
all  her  clothes.  A  few  miserable  old  rags,  and  a  locket  of  a 
gentleman  whom  I  did  not  know,  but  supposed  to  be  her  hus 
band,  was  all  that  I  could  find. 

I  threw  them  all  back  into  the  box,  and,  slipping  a  couple 
of  dollars  into  the  woman's  hand,  bade  her  good-by,  and  re 
turned  once  more  to  Roland  and  Willie. 

I  never  mentioned  Grace's  name  or  death  to  Roland,  as  I 
did  not  like,  in  his  weak  state  of  health,  to  disturb  him  with 
unpleasant  reminiscences ;  and,  besides,  there  was  a  delicacy 
and  restraint  concerning  this  subject  between  us  that  I  did 
not  like  to  break  through,  and  I  soon  had  occasion  to  think 
of  other  things. 

46 


CHAPTER    LV. 

"  0,  stormy  wind  of  winter-time  !  moan  wildly  as  you  will, 
His  rest  you  cannot  trouble  now,  his  heart  you  cannot  chill. 
Deep  in  your  bosom  fold,  0  Earth  !  your  shining  flowers  away  ; 
His  steps  are  in  the  lily-fields  of  never-ending  May. 

"  Draw  your  red  shadows  from  the  wall,  0,  beauteous  ember-glow  ! 
Drift  cold  about  his  silent  house,  0,  white  December  snow  ! 
Across  the  sparkle  of  the  dew  dry  dust  in  whirlwinds  pour  ; 
Hide,  new  moon,  in  the  cloudy  skies —  he  needs  your  light  no  more." 

ALICE  CAREY. 

ROLAND'S  health  grew  worse  as  the  summer  declined  into 
autumn  j  and,  as  I  looked  into  his  pale,  thin  face,  and  wasted 
form,  I  felt  the  certainty  almost  that  I  should  soon  be  called 
upon  to  stand  by  another  death-bed. 

All  through  the  beautiful  summer  I  had  been  constantly  by 
his  side.  My  hand  alone  had  smoothed  his  pillow,  and  pre 
sented  him  the  cooling  beverage.  I  had  read  to  him, .walked 
with  him,  and  sat  many,  many  hours  by  his  side,  listening  to 
his  gentle  conversation.  We  had  prayed  and  wept  together, 
and  I  had  had  the  blessed  satisfaction  of  feeling  that  he  was 
an  earnest  and  devoted  follower  of  God.  But  now  the  days 
grew  shorter ;  the  fruits  had  ripened,  and  autumn-leaves  were 
strewing  the  paths  of  our  beautiful  retreat. 


BOSTON     COMMON.  543 

One  day,  late  in  September,  as  we  sat  gazing  sadly  at  the 
fading  leaves,  Roland  said  : 

"  How  sweet  is  the  face  of  nature  to  me !  how  beautiful 
the  changing  seasons !  And  is  it  possible  that  I  must  so 
soon  close  my  eyes  upon  all  these  familiar  and  pleasing 
scenes?  —  that  for  me  the  seasons  will  no  more  present 
their  varying  forms  ?  that  I  shall  be  dead  to  all  the  sweet 
influences  of  nature  ?  I  can  scarcely  realize  it,  and  yet  it  is 
so.  Helen,  I  feel  that  I  have  looked  my  last  upon  this 
sweet  spot ;  that  henceforth,  when  you  wander  here,  you  will 
miss  a  familiar  voice  and  form ;  that  I  shall  no  longer  be  with 
you." 

I  wept,  for  his  words  seemed  prophetic.  "  But,  dear 
Helen,"  he  continued,  "  I  shall  still  be  near  you ;  and, 
in  yon  bright  world,  where  the  seasons  never  change,  and 
the  flowers  do  not  fade,  shall  still  watch  over  you  and  our 
boy." 

Roland's  words  were  true.  He  never  walked  upon  the 
Common  again.  The  next  day  a  severe  attack  of  his  cough 
visited  him ;  and,  when  that  somewhat  abated,  he  was  too 
weak  to  walk  about  much.  Besides,  the  weather  had  grown 
much  colder,  and  I  feared  to  have  him  venture  out. 

We  read  and  talked,  however,  and  enjoyed  our  calm  fire 
side  as  much  as  we  could  enjoy  anything  under  the  present 
circumstances. 

Roland  was  at  length  confined  to  his  bed  all  day.  I  had 
all  sorts  of  medicines  and  many  physicians  for  him ;  but  they 
pronounced  it  a  case  of  hopeless  consumption.  He  did  not 
suffer  much,  however.  Unlike  our  beloved  Harry,  he  had 
no  fearful  pains  to  struggle  with,  but  seemed  to  be  gently 


544  BOSTON     COMMON. 

\ 

and  calmly  passing  away,  as  the  light  fades,  upon  a  summer's 
evening. 

The  marks  which  dissipation  had  left  upon  his  face  had 
nearly  disappeared,  and  were  succeeded  by  a  sweet,  spirit 
ual  expression.  Such  is  the  power  of  the  blessed  religion  of 
God :  it  can  change  the  hardest  face,  and  make  it  soft  with 
the  dew  of  tender  emotion. 

As  all  hopes  of  Roland's  recovery  had  now  disappeared,  I 
sent  immediately  for  his  parents  and  mine  to  come  and  wit 
ness  his  last  moments.  In  a  week  they  had  arrived,  and  our 
little  cottage  was  filled  with  weeping  guests. 

One  evening,  about  a  fortnight  after  their  arrival,  Roland 
requested  them  all  to  leave  the  room,  telling  them  that  he  had 
something  very  particular  to  say  to  me. 

"  Helen,"  said  he,  "  take  Willie,  and  come  and  sit  down  by 
me  a  few  moments.  I  wish  to  talk  with  you.  Helen,  I  am  very 
anxious  to  see  Ernest  once  more.  He  has  been  my  spiritual 
adviser,  my  savior,  and  I  wish  to  see  him  ere  I  die.  Will 
you  bring  him  to  me,  Helen  ?  " 

"  I  will,  Roland,  —  I  will  do  anything  you  wish." 

"  You  told  me,  a  short  time  ago,  dear  Nellie,  of  a  strange 
dream  you  had  concerning  Ernest  —  how  that,  when  we  were 
sinking  in  a  deep,  black  slough,  he  rescued  us  therefrom. 
Me  he  has  already  saved ;  but  you,  my  precious  one,  are  still 
in  the  depths  of  trouble.  I  have  often  thought,  Helen,  that 
you  would  make  a  beautiful  couple  —  two  noble,  earnest 
spirits,  just  fitted  to  go  hand  in  hand  together,  and  do  God's 
holy  work ;  and,  Nellie,  when  I  am  gone,  and  you  have 
heaped  the  turf  over  my  breast,  go  to  Ernest,  and  tell  him  to 
take  you  to  himself.  I  know  he  loves  you,  and  I  am  willing, 
and  should  be  happy,  to  have  you  united. 


BOSTON     COMMON.  545 

"  To-morrow,  dear  Nellie,  I  wish  to  partake  of  the  sacra 
ment  ;  and  who  but  Ernest  can  administer  it  ?  You  will  seek 
him  to-night,  my  wife,  and  tell  him  to  come." 

"  I  will,  —  I  will,  dear  Roland  !  " 

"  Thank  you.  Now,  Willie,  darling,"  he  continued,  as  I 
held  the  child  for  him  to  kiss,  "  God  bless  you,  my  son,  and 
may  you  live  to  be  a  faithful  servant  of  his !  I  leave  you  in 
good  hands,  my  darling  boy,  —  I  leave  you  with  a  kind 
father  and  mother."  • 

He  sunk  back  upon  his  pillow  quite  exhausted,  and,  as  it 
was  now  past  seven  o'clock,  I  prepared  to  seek  Ernest.  I 
donned  tny  bonnet,  and  walked,  with  sad«eteps,  to  his  house. 

Again  did  I  find  myself,  scarcely  knowing  it,  in  that  soli 
tary  study ;  again  did  I  encounter  Ernest's  sad  eyes,  as  they 
met  mine  inquiringly. 

"  Helen,  dearest,"  said  he,  as  he  arose,  "  what  means  that 
pale  cheek  and  tearful  eye?  Is  Roland  worse?" 

"  He  is,  Ernest.  I  think  he  will  scarcely  survive  through 
the  morrow.  He  wishes  you  to  administer  the  sacrament  to 
him  before  he  departs.  Wilt  come,  dear  Ernest?" 

"  I  will  be  there  to-morrow,  Helen,  —  I  will  obey  his  re 
quest." 

I  wrung  his  hand,  and  stole  noiselessly  into  the  drawing- 
room.  I  had  seen  Mabel  many  times  during  the  summer,  as 
she  had  been  a  constant  visitor  at  the  cottage ;  but  when  I 
told  her  of  Roland's  approaching  death,  she  mingled  her  tears 
with  mine.  Edward  was  there,  and  accompanied  me  home. 
I  found  Roland  in  a  sweet  sleep,  and  seated  myself  upon  his 
bed.  I  could  not  leave  him,  for  I  fancied  that  this  would 
be  his  last  night  upon  earth;  and  so  I  sat  watching  the 
4G* 


546  BOSTON     COMMON. 

beloved  countenance,  until  gray  dawn  tipped  the  eastern  hori 
zon,  and  checkered  that  darkened  room  with  a  few  rajs  of  light. 

About  eleven  o'clock  Ernest  arrived,  and  was  affectionately 
received  by  Roland.  The  ceremony  of  the  Lord's  Supper 
was  deeply  impressive  and  solemn ;  and,  after  it  was  over, 
Roland  called  Ernest  and  myself  to  his  bedside. 

"  Dear  Ernest/'  said  he,  "  will  you  promise  to  be  a  husband 
to  Helen,  and  a  father  to  my  orphan  boy,  when  I  am  gone  ? ' 

"  I  will,  I  will,"  replied  Ernest,  in  a  firm  tone. 

"  Then,  Ernest,  I  shall  depart  in  peace.  You  love  each 
other,  and  may  you  both  be  happy  !  " 

"  Amen !  "  responded  every  heart  in  that  little  room. 

Roland  did  not  die  that  night,  but  lingered  two  or  three 
days  longer.  His  speech  grew  weaker  and  weaker,  his 
breathing  fainter;  and,  at  length,  on  one  calm,  quiet  October 
evening,  he  fell  softly  asleep  in  the  arms  of  Jesus. 

When  all  was  over  I  sought  my  room,  and,  folding  my 
fatherless  babe  to  my  breast,  wept  —  but  I  wept  not  as  those 
without  hope.  I  felt  assured  that  the  weary  spirit  was  safe 
—  was  happy ;  and,  trusting  that  it  was  still  watching  over 
us,  I  fell  asleep. 

Roland  looked  beautifully  calm  in  his  shroud.  We  sur 
rounded  him  with  the  snowy  blossoms  of  the  japonica ;  we 
parted  the  bright  hair  from  off  the  pale  brow ;  we  shut  the 
beautiful  features  from  our  sight,  and,  placing  him  in  a  little 
mound  of  earth  by  the  side  of  Harry,  left  him  to  rest  until 
the  resurrection  morn,  —  in  that -sweet  place  he  loved  so  well 
upon  earth,  —  in  that  fair  temple  where  his  footsteps  had  so 
often  and  fondly  lingered,  —  in  that  bright  spot  that  looks  as 
if  the  smile  of  God  was  ever  resting  upon  it  —  beautiful  Boston 
Common. 


CHAPTER    LVI. 

CONCLUSION. 

"  'T  is  never  woman's  part, 
Out  of  her  fond,  misgivings  to  perplex 
The  fortunes  of  the  man  to  whonvshe  cleaves; 
'T  is  hers  to  weave  all  that  she  has  of  fair 
And  bright  in  the  dark  meshes  of  their  web, 
Inseparate  from  their  windings.     My  poor  heart 
Hath  found  its  refuge  in  a  hero's  love; 
Whatever  destiny  his  generous  soul 
Shape  for  him,  't  is  its  duty  to  be  still, 
And  trust  him,  till  it  bound  or  break  with  him." 

TALFOURD. 

A  FEW  weeks  more,  and  I  had  shut  up  the  little  cottage, 
that  now  looked  so  lonely  since  Roland's  death,  —  had  re 
newed  my  deep,  unalterable  vows  to  Ernest,  —  had  thanked 
him  for  the  happiness  I  now  enjoyed,  in  .having  fulfilled  my 
duty,  and  returned  to  Linden  with  my  parents  and  Willie. 

I  intended  to  pass  the  period  of  my  mourning  with  them, 
which,  by  both  Roland's  and  Ernest's  request,  had  been  lim 
ited  to  one  year. 

I  found  my  friends  all  glad  to  see  me,  and  very  ready  to 
sympathize  with  me  in  the  deep  affliction  I  had  met  with. 
Kate  Merton  received  me  with  open  arms.  She  looked  just 


548  BOSTON     COMMON. 

as  bright  and  beautiful  as  ever,  and  was  just  as  affectionate. 
Time  had  no  effect  upon  our  Katie  ;  and  would  you  know  the 
secret,  reader?  She  always  kept  her  heart  warm  and  pure; 
and  I  do  believe  that,  if  Katie  lives  to  be  a  hundred  years 
old,  she  will  still  possess  the  same  affectionate  nature,  and 
the  same  kind  smile,  that  give  her  such  a  youthful  ap 
pearance. 

Kate  informed  me,  a  few  days  after  my  arrival,  that  she 
was  going  to  postpone  her  marriage  until  my  own  took  place. 

"  I  am  determined,  Helen,"  said  she,  "  to  be  your  brides 
maid  this  time,  let  what  will  happen.  Master  Robert  Everett 
may  fret  and  fume  as  much  as  he  pleases,  but  I  shall  certainly 
have  my  way." 

I  thanked  my  friend  for  her  kindness,  but  half  guessed  that 
she  had  another  motive  in  view.  Katie  was  very  tenacious 
of  her  liberty,  between  you  and  me,  reader ;  and  she  did  long 
so  much  to  have  one  more  summer  to  roam  around  our  grand 
old  woods  and  rocks  with  me. 

And  did  n't  we  have  it?  —  but  stop  a  bit.  Winter  came, 
and  passed  away  in  quiet  enjoyment.  Every  week  I  received 
a  long  letter  from  Ernest.  Every  letter  grew  brighter  and 
brighter  with  hope,  and  at  last  I  could  almost  fancy  that  I 
saw  the  reflection  of  his  own  happy  face  in  each  one. 

Ernest's  letters  were  so  affectionate,  so  eloquent,  and  so 
full  of  good  maxims,  that  I  think  I  shall  publish  them,  some 
day,  if  he  will  permit  me.  They  would  do  the  world  all  sorts 
of  good,  I  think  —  but,  then,  you  need  not  take  my  word  for 
it,  reader,  as  you  happen  to  know  pretty  well,  by  this  time, 
that  I  am  rather  partial  to  my  cousin  Ernest,  and,  conse 
quently,  think  both  him  and  his  sayings  a  little  the  best  of 
anything  in  the  world. 


BOSTON     COMMON.  549 

Spring  came,  at  last,  with  her  soft  skies,  gentle  zephyrs,  and 
opening  blossoms.  The  days  began  to  grow  milder,  and 
Katie  and  myself  betook  ourselves  to  our  long-expected 
rambling  excursions. 

We  climbed  every  mountain,  roamed  every  field,  and  ex 
plored  every  valley  around.  We  spent  hours  in  drawing 
sketches  of  our  sweet  native  Linden,  and  soon  had  our  port 
folios  filled  with  landscapes. 

When  weary  of  drawing,  we  would  betake  ourselves  to  our 
favorite  "  Granite  Bluff,"  and  spend  hours  in  reading  or  con 
versing  in  this  charming  spot. 

At  last,  and  somewhat  to  my  surprise,  Ernest's  letters 
grew  in  quantity.  I  now  had  two  a  week,  and  sometimes 
three.  Kate  had  been  visited  with  the  same  phenomenon, 
and  told  me,  with  a  pouting  lip,  that  if  Master  Bob  Everett 
(she  always  called  him  Bob,  when  a  little  vexed)  expected 
her  to  answer  half  the  letters  he  wrote,  he  would  find  himself 
very  much  mistaken,  for  she  had  a  plenty  of  other  business  to 
attend  to,  besides  that.  This  business  was  helping  prepare 
her  little  friend,  Nellie  Hastings,  for  her  second  bridal ;  and 
all  the  time  that  could  be  spared  from  our  needles  was  spent 
in  rambling  about  the  woods  of  Linden. 

At  last,  the  letters  grew  so  frequent  that  we  began  to  be  a 
little  alarmed,  for  fear  we  could  not  find  a  place  sufficiently 
large  to  keep  them  in ;  but  this  astonishing  increase,  as  well 
as  our  fears,  was  explained  and  laid  at  rest  by  a  visit  from 
the  gentlemen  themselves. 

Of  course  we  were  very  sorry  to  see  them,  for  they  hin 
dered  our  work,  and  other  fine  plans  we  had  laid  out  for  the 
summer.  We  put  the  best  face  we  could  upon  the  matter, 


550  BOSTON     COMMON. 

however,  and  received  them  with  a  very  good  grace,  con 
sidering. 

And  now  came  the  fine  rambles.  We  dragged  our  city 
gentlemen  all  over  the  woods,  —  we  made  them  climb  rocks 
and  hills,  —and,  one  day,  Kate  had  serious  intentions  of 
sending  Robert  Everett,  Esq.,  into  a  muddy  pond,  after  lilies 
for  her.  The  capricious  little  wretch  had  set  her  mind  upon 
having  these  same  lilies ;  but  Robert  looked  so  deprecatingly 
at  her,  and  then  at  his  broadcloth  and  boots,  that,  in  pity 
to  their  lustre  and  his  vanity,  she  forbore,  and  said  some 
other  time  would  do  just  as  well. 

Our  gentlemen  soon  grew  weary  of  these  walks,  called  us  a 
couple  of  romps,  and  declared  they  would  not  hunt  another 
squirrel  from  his  lair,  or  soil  their  fingers  with  our  dirty  roots 
and  plants  again ;  that  they  were  not  naturalists,  and  did  n't 
wish  to  be.  They  preferred  to  sit  with  us  and  converse,  in 
the  quiet  parlor ;  and  we,  in  pity  to  their  city  habits,  of 
course  submitted. 

What  long,  pleasant  hours  did  we  now  spend  in  laying 
plans  for  the  future  !  Sabbath  came,  and  I  had  the  happi 
ness  of  seeing  my  betrothed  filling  the  pulpit  of  the  little 
church  under  whose  eaves  I  had  listened,  from  earliest  child 
hood,  to  the  preaching  of  the  Gospel.  How  noble  he  looked, 
in  that  venerable  old  church !  and  how  simple,  yet  eloquent, 
were  the  words  that  proceeded  from  his  mouth ! 

By  the  end  of  the  next  week  the  gentlemen  had  gone,  and 
Kate  and  myself  were  once  more  left  to  our  rambles.  But 
we  were  so  lonely  after  their  departure,  and  the  woods  looked 
so  solitary,  that  we  chose  to  remain  at  home,  and  finish  our 
work. 


BOSTON     COMMON.  551 

Everything  was  at  last  in  readiness,  and  the  first  of 
October  brought  Ernest,  Robert,  Edward,  and  Mabel,  once 
more  to  our  sylvan  dell.  We  were  to  have  a  treble  wed 
ding  in  the  church,  and  it  was  to  take  place  in  the 
morning. 

The  evening  before  my  bridal  was  spent  with  Ernest 
and  my  parents.  As  the  event  approached  that  was  to 
unite  me  to  this  noble  being,  I  experienced  a  calm,  serious 
happiness  lying  deep  in  my  heart,  —  it  seemed  too  deep  for 
grief  ever  to  reach  again.  And  yet  to  be  really  married 
to  him  appeared  so  strange,  so  unreal.  I  looked  at  my 
wedding-cards,  and  wondered  who  the  Mrs.  Richmond 
upon  them  could  be,  and  how  she  would  feel  when  all  was 
over. 

Early  on  that  beautiful  morning,  dressed  in  our  snowy 
robes,  and  accompanied  by  our  friends,  we  repaired  to  the 
church.  The  whole  air  upon  that  .auspicious  morning  seemed 
teeming  with  joy  :  the  birds  were  singing  their  departing 
songs,  and  the  groves  were  beautifully  clothed  in  their  dap 
pled  colors  of  green,  brown,  orange,  and  red. 

The  old  church  received  us  to  its  sheltering  bosom,  and 
once  more  did  I  stand  before  the  altar,  and  this  time  pledge 
thf?  vows  that  forever  bound  me  to  my  long-loved,  long-tried 
cousin  Ernest. 

The  minister  who  had  poured  the  baptismal  water  upon 
my  infant  brow  joined  our  hands  in  marriage,  and  pro 
nounced  over  us  the  benediction.  An  affecting  prayer  now 
concluded  the  ceremony,  and,  stepping  into  our  carriages, 
we  returned  to  our  respective  homes  —  Katie  and  Robert 
to  her  father's,  Edward  and  Mabel  to  the  Linden  House, 


552  BOSTON     COMMON. 

and  Ernest  and  myself  to   our   parents',  in   the   dear   old 
homestead. 

And  now,  dear  reader,  after  manifold  temptations  and 
trials,  sorrows  and  vicissitudes,  Ernest  and  Helen  are  really 
married. 

We  spent  three  days  at  Linden  with  our  friends,  and  then 
started  for  our  future  homes  in  dear  old  Boston. 

Robert  and  Edward,  upon  their  arrival,  took  their  wives 
immediately  to  their  beautiful,  comfortable  homes ;  while 
Ernest,  Willie,  and  myself,  repaired  to  our  future  home  in 
Summer-street. 

And  Ernest  was  now  happy.  A  calm,  tranquil  smile  ever 
rested  upon  that  face,  and  added  to  the  noble  interest  of  his 
features.  But  few  years  have  passed  since  we  came  to  the 
old  house ;  but  God  has  never  permitted  the  shadow  of  a 
grief  to  rest  upon  our  hearts  since  our  marriage.  Two  lovely 
children,  a  son  and  daughter,  who  bear  the  names  of  Ernest 
and  Helen,  have  been  added  to  our  darling  Willie. 

Willie  is  now  a  fine  large  boy.  He  has  the  same  sweet 
face,  floating  hair,  and  soft  eyes,  as  his  father;  but  the 
strongly-drawn  lines  around  the  mouth  indicate  that  nothing 
can  tempt  him  aside  into  the  paths  of  evil,  like  that  unfortu 
nate  father. 

~> 

It  is  our  daily  prayer  that  all  our  children  may  be  good 
and  happy ;  we  will  be  content  if  these  blessings  are  but 
granted  us. 

Uncle  and  aunt  Glenmore  are  now  in  the  sere  and  yellow 
leaf.  They  have  settled  down  quietly  at  the  old  Glen  I  have 
had  occasion  to  mention  so  often  in  this  story,  and  are  passing 
the  evening  of  their  lives  in  peaceful  tranquillity. 


BOSTON     COMMON.  553 

The  school  is  now  broken  up,  the  boys  dispersed  to  differ 
ent  parts  of  the  world,  and  some  are  dead.  Elwyn  Moore, 
our  nervous  teacher,  married,  long  ago,  a  plain,  simple,  un 
affected  girl,  just  fitted  for  him,  and  with  whom  he  lives  very 
happily. 

Mrs.  John  Smith  made  one  or  two  attempts  at  visiting  her 
"  old  cherished  friend  Helen ;  "  but  that  person,  understanding 
the  motives  which  prompted  these  visits,  never  returned  them, 
and  the  acquaintance  dropped.  She  still  lives  in  the  big 
house,  and  is  as  fashionable  as  ever.  She  does  not,  however, 
give  or  attend  large  parties  quite  as  much  as  formerly ;  for 
she  is  very  much  engaged  in  attending  to  the  little  John 
Smiths,  of  whom,  as  usual,  there  is  a  large  number. 

My  parents  and  their  children  still  reside  in  the  old  Clifton 
Homestead.  Every  summer  we  visit  them,  with  the  children, 
and  in  the  winter  are  visited  by  them  in  return. 

Ernest,  my  husband,  is  still  engaged  in  ministering  to  the 
spiritual  wants  of  his  congregation.  He  is  regarded  by 
them  with  the  utmost  respect  and  affection,  and  is  unwearied 
in  his  efforts  to  promote  their  good  and  his  heavenly  Master's 
kingdom. 

Shall  I  say  —  what  it  is  almost  superfluous  to  add  —  that 
we  are  now  happy?  —  that  "we  are  constantly  engaged  in 
doing  good ;  and  that,  deep  in  the  recesses  of  our  beloved 
sanctuary  home,  we  silently  work  and  pray  that  all  the 
world  may  seek  happiness  from  the  source  whence  we  have 
received  it  ? 

Reader,  who  may  have  traced  with  me  my  simple  history 
thus  far,  will  you  listen  a  moment  longer,  while  I  point,  out 
the  moral  of  this  tale? 
47 


554  BOSTON     COMMON. 

It  shows  how  easily  temptations  assail  us,  and  that  nothing 
but  the  Spirit  of  God  will  ever  keep  us  from  them. 

It  shows  how  a  holy  life,  a  conscience  void  of  offence,  will 
insure  us  a  peaceful  death,  and  a  triumphant  entrance  into 
heaven. 

It  shows  how  the  most  hardened  sinner  may  be  brought, 
by  sincere  prayers  and  tears,  to  penitence ;  and  although 
years  may  pass  ere  those  prayers  are  answered,  yet  that  their 
incense  is  ever  fresh  before  the  throne  of  God,  and  that  he 
will  surely  lend  a  listening  ear,  a^id  vouchsafe  an  answer  of 
peace  to  the  suppliant. 

It  shows  how  the  soul  may  be  sustained  and  cheered  in 
the  darkest  hour  of  trouble.  When  grief  presses  it  sor 
rowing  to  the  earth ;  when  all  is  black  as  the  tomb ;  when 
the  fainting  soul  is  ready  to  expire,  and  death  seems  a 
precious  boon,  could  it  be  granted,  then  it  shows  that  the 
blessed  Spirit  of  God  alone  has  power  to  revive  all  these 
drooping  faculties,  and  to  make  the  languishing  soul  arise  and 
sing  for  joy. 

And,  lastly :  it  plainly  teaches  that  duty,  however  painful 
to  be  performed,  if  performed  faithfully,  and  in  the  right 
spirit,  always  brings  its  own  reward ;  and  that  to  have  peace, 
sweet  peace,  ever  dwelling  in  our  hearts,  we  must  always  do 
right. 

My  tale  is  done,  and  yet  I  linger,  loth  to  part  with  the 
companions  who  have  cheered  me  in  my  task.  It  is  evening, 
and  I  wander  among  the  sequestered  bowers  of  the  beautiful 
Common.  Ernest,  my  beloved,  is  by  my  side,  and  our  three 
children  are  playing  merrily  at  our  feet. 

Once  more  do  I  take  you,  gentle  reader,  to  this  fair  spot, 


BOSTON    COMMON.  555 

where  you  have  been  with  me  so  many  times  before.  Here 
am  I  still,  where  I  have  suffered  so  much,  where  so  many 
emotions  have  struggled  in  my  breast  —  where  so  much  of 
love,  peace,  and  joy,  has  filled  my  heart.  Still  do  I  point 
out  the  little  hill  where  Ernest  and  myself  spent  so  many 
happy  hours  in  the  spring-tide  of  our  lives,  —  still  do  I  muse 
beside  the  limpid  pond,  and  gaze  down  into  its  clear  depths 
with  my  cousin,  to  note  and  wonder  at  the  striking  resemblance 
between  us. 

Still  am  I  wandering  beneath  the  trees  with  the  gentle 
Harry,  and,  looking  into  his  spiritual  eyes,  almost  dream  of 
the  heaven  to  which  he  is  hastening ;  still  am  I  weeping  by 
his  side  as  he  talks  so  mournfully  of  his  death.  Once  more 
do  I  bend  forward  to  catch  the  parting  breath,  and  once 
more,  deep  down  in  my  soul,  do  I  hear  the  words,  "  Helen,  I 
am  waiting  for  thee !  " 

Again  do  I  kneel  over  the  sacred  mound,  and  pray  for 
strength  to  heed  those  parting  words ;  and  again  am  I  seated 
upon  that  lonely  grave,  in  the  silent  evening  hour,  alone  with 
my  child  and  God. 

Once  more  am  I  wandering  side  by  side  with  the  husband 
of  my  youth,  and  feeling,  by  his  cheering  words,  that  my 
prayers,  breathed  in  agony  and  darkness,  have  at  last  found 
a  listening  ear. 

And  here  am  I,  lingering  with  my  husband  and  children, 
still  in  this  beloved  place,  the  scene  of  so  many  joys,  hopes, 
sorrows,  to  us. 

We  wander  beneath  the  lofty  trees ;  we  stand  beside  the 
cool  fountain ;  we  pause  and  dream  over  the  rose-covered 
graves  of  our  lost  Harry  and  Roland,  and  a  deep  quiet  takes 


556  BOSTON     COMMON. 

possession  of  our  hearts.  We  hear  their  gentle  spirits  call 
ing  to  us  from  the  tree-tops ;  we  feel  the  cool  rustling  of  their 
angel-wings  bathing  our  brows;  and,  with  hope,  peace,  and 
love,  in  our  hearts,  and  a  longing  for  the  happier  bowers 
of  heaven,  we  turn  from  fair,  lovely,  and  beautiful  BOSTON 
COMMON. 


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